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TOM BROWN’S

SCHOOL DAYS.

By an old boy.

NEW EDITION.

WITH ILLUSTRATidNS BY ARTHUR HUGHES AND SIDNEY PRIOR HALL.

NEW YORK:

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

FRANKLIN SQUARE.

1875..

MRS. ARNOLD,

OF FOX HOWE,

THIS BOOK m (WITHOUT HER PERMISSION)

itiitttlti

BY THE AUTHOR,

WHO OWES MORE THAN HE CAN EVER ACKNOWLEDGE
OR FORGET TO HER AND HERS.

2629

As on the one hand it shotdd ever be remembered that we are boys, and boys at school, so
on the other hand we must bear in mmd that we form a complete social body ... a society, in
which, by the nature of the case, we imist not only learnt, but act and live' and act and live 7iot
only as boys, but as boys who will be men.'' — Rugby Magazine.

PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION,

I RECEIVED the following letter from an old
friend soon after the last edition of this book was
published, and resolved, if ever another edition
were called for, to print it. For it is clear from
this and other like comments, that something
more should have been said expressly on the
subject of bullying, and how it is to be met.

“ Mt dear , I blame myself for not having earlier

suggested whether you could not, in another edition of
Tom Brown, or another story, denounce more decidedly
the evils of bullying at schools. You have indeed done
so, and in the best way, by making Flashman the bully
the most contemptible character, but in that scene of the
tossing, and similar passages, you hardly suggest that such
things should be stopped — and do not suggest any means
of putting an end to them.

“ This subject has been on my mind for years. It fills
me with grief and misery to think what weak and nerv-
ous children go through at school— how their health and
character for life are destroyed by rough and brutal
treatment.

“ It was some comfort to be under the old delusion that
fear and nervousness can be cured by violence, and that
knocking about will turn a timid boy into a bold one.
But now we know well enough that is not true. Gradually
training a timid child to do bold acts would be most de-
sirable ; but frightening him and ill-treating him will
not make him courageous. Every medical man knows the
fatal effects of terror, or agitation, or excitement, to nerves
that are over-sensitive. There are different kinds of couii-
age, as you have shown in your character of Arthur.

“ A boy may have moral courage, and a finely-organized
brain and nervous system. Such a boy is calculated, if
judiciously educated, to be a great, wise, and useful man,;
but he may not possess animal coverage; and one night’s
tossing, or bullying, may produce such an injury to hiS
brain and nerves that his usefulness is spoiled for life. I
verily believe that hundreds of noble organizations are thus
destroyed every year. Horse jockeys have learnt to be
wiser ; they know that a highly nervous horse is utterly
destroyed by harshness. A groom who tried to cure a
shying horse by roughness and violence, would be dis-
charged as a brute and a fool. A man who would regu-
late Ills watch with a crowbar would be considered an ass.
But the person who thinks a child of delicate and nervous
organization can be made bold by bullying is no better.

“He can be made bold by healthy exercise and games
and sports ; but that is quite a different thing. And even
these games and sports should bear some proportion to his
strength and capacities.

“ I very much doubt whether small children should play
with big ones ; the rush of a set of great fellows at foot-
ball, or the speed of a cricket-ball sent bv a strong hitter,
ra\ist be vary alarming to a mere child, to a child who

might stand up boldly enough among children of his own
size and height.

“ Look at half a dozen small children playing cricket by
themselves; how feeble are their blows, how slowly they
bowl. You can measure in that way their capacity.

“ Tom Brown and his eleven were bold enough playing
against an eleven of their own calibre ; but I suspect they
would have been in a precious funk if they had played
against eleven giants, whose bowling bore the same pro-
portion to theirs that theirs does to the small children’s
above.

“ To return to the tossing. I must say I think some
means might be devised to enable school-boys to go to b d
in quietness and peace — and that some means ought to be
devised and enfoiced. No good, moral or physical, to
those who bully or those who are bullied, can ensue from
such scenes as take place in the dormitories of schools. I
suspect that British wisdom and ingenuity are sufficient
to discover a remedy for tliis evil, if directed in the right
direction.

“ The fact is, that the condition of a small boy at a large
school is one of peculiar hardship and suffeiing. He is
entirely at the mercy of proverbially the roughest things
in the universe — great school-boys ; and he is deprived of
the protection which the weak have in civUized society;
for he may not complain; if he does, he is an outlaw; ho
has no protector but public opinion, and that a public
opinion of the very lowest grade, the opinion of rude and
ignorant boys.

“What do school-boys know of those deep questions of
moral and physical philosophy, of the anatomy of mind
and body, by which the treatment of a child should be
regulated ?

“Why should the laws of civilization be suspended for
schools ? Why should boys be left to herd together with
no law but that of force or cunning? What would be-
come of society if it were constituted on the same princi-
ples ? It would be plunged into anarchy in a week.

“ One of our judges, not long ago, refused to extend the
protection of the law to a child who had been ill-treated at
school. If a party of n.avvies had given him a licking, and
he had brought the case before a magistrate, what would
he have thought if the magistrate had I'efused to protect
him, on the ground that if such cases were brought before
him, he might liave fifty a day from one town only ?

“Now I agree with yc u that a constant supervision of
the master is not desirable or possible — and that telling
biles, or constantly I'cforrii g to the master for protection,
would only produce ill-will and woree tinatment.

“If I rightly understand your book, it is an effort to
improve the condition of schools by improving the tone of
morality and public opinion in them. But your book con-
tains the most indubitable proofs that the condition of tho
younger boys at public schools, except under the rare dic-
tatorship of an Old Brooke, is one of great hardship an 1
suffering.

“ A timid and nervous boy is from morning till night in
a state of bodily fear. He is constantly tormented when
trying to le.arn his lessons. His play-hours are occupie 1

viii

PREFACE.

in fagging, in a horrid funk of cricket-balls and footballs,
and the violent sport of creatures who, to him, are giants.
He goes to his bed in fear and trembling — worse than the
reality of the rough tre.atment to which he is perhaps sub-
jected.

“ I believe there is only one complete remedy. It is not
in magisterial supervision ; nor in telling tales ; nor in
mising the tone of public opinion among school-boys — but
in the separation of boys of different ages into different
schools.

“There should be at least three different classes of
schools — the first for boys from nine to twelve ; the second
for boys from twelve to fifteen; the third for those above
fifteen. And these schools should be in different localities.

“There ought to be a certain amount of supervision by
the master at those times when there are special occarions
for bullying, e. g. in the long winter evenings, and when
the boys are congregated together in the bedrooms.
Surely it can not be an impossibility to keep order and
protect the weak at such times. Whatever evils might
arise from supervision, they could hardly be greater than j
those produced by a system which divides boys into des-
pots and slaves. Ever yours, very truly,

“F. D.’’

The question of how to adapt English public
school education to nervous and sensitive boys
(often the highest and noblest subjects which
that education has to deal with) ought to be
looked at from every point of view.* I there-
fore add a few extracts from the letter of an old
friend and schoolfellow, than tvhora no man in
England is better able to speak on the subject.

“What’s the use of sorting the boys by ages, unless you
do so by strength: and who are often the real bullies?
The strong young dog of fourteen, while the victim may
be one year or two years older. ... I deny the fact about
the bedrooms : there is trouble at times, and always will
be ; but so there is in nurseries — my little girl, who looks
like an angel, was bullying the smallest twice to-day.

“ Bullying must be fought with in other ways — by get-
ting not only the Sixth to put it down, but the lower fel-
lows to scorn it, and by eradicating mercilessly the incor-
rigible ; and a master who really cares for his fellows is
pretty sure to know instinctively who in his house are
likely to be bullied, and, knowing a fellow to be really
victimized and harassed, I am sui-e that he can stop it if
he is resolved. There are many kinds of annoyance —
sometimes of real cutting persecution for righteousness’
.sake — that he can’t stop, no more could all the ushers in
the world; but he can do very much in many ways to
make the shafts of the wicked pointless.

“ But though, for quite other reasons, I don’t like to see
very young boys launched at a public school, and though
1 '"on’ t deny (I wish I could) the existence from time to time
of bullying, I deny its being a constant condition of school
life, and still more, the possibility of meeting it by the
means proposed. . . .”

“ I don’t wish to understate the amount of bulling
Shat goes on ; but my conviction is that it must be fought,
like all school evils, but it more than any, by dynamics

* For those who believe with me in public school educa-
tion, the fact stated in the following extract from a note of
Mr. G. De Bunsen will be hailed with pleasure, especially
now that our alliance with Prussia (the most natural and
liealthy Europ an alliance for Protestant England) is
likely to be so much stronger and deeper than heretofore.
Speaking of this book, he says — “ The author is mistaken
in saying that public schools, in the English sense, are pe-
culiar to England. Schul Pforte (in the Prussian province
of Saxony) is similar in antiquity and institutions. I like
his book all the more for having been there for five years.”

rather than mechanics, by getting the fellows to respect
themselves and one another, rather than by sitting by
them with a thick stick.”

And now, having broken my resolution never
to write a Preface, there are just two or three
things which I should like to say a word about.

Several persons, for whose judgment I have
the highest respect, while saying very kind
things about this book, have added, that the
great fault of it is “too much preaching but
they hope I shall amend in this matter should I
ever write again. Now this I most distinctly

ing at all, was to get the chance of preaching !
When a man comes to my time of life, and has
his bread to make, and very little time to spare,
is it likely that he will spend almost the whole
of his yearly vacation in Avriting a story just to
amuse people ? I think not. At any rate, I
wouldn’t do so myself.

The fact is, that I can scarcely ever call on
one of my contemporaries nowadays without
running across a boy already at school, or just
ready to go there, whose bright looks and sup-
ple limbs remind me of his father, and our first
meeting in old times. I can scarcely keep the
Latin Grammar out of my own house any long-
er ; and the sight of sons, nephews, and god-
sons, playing trap-bat-and-ball, and reading
“Robinson Crusoe,” makes one ask one’s self,
whether there isn’t something one w’ould like to
say to them before they take their first plunge
into the stream of life, aw’ay from their own
homes, or while they are yet shivering after the
first plunge. My sole object in writing was to
preach to boys : if ever I write again, it will be
to preach to some other age. I can’t see that a
man has any business to Avrite at all, unless he
has something Avhich he thoroughly believes and
wants to preach about. If he has this, and the
chance of delivering himself of it, let him by all
means put it in the shape in Avhich it Avill be most
likely to get a hearing ; but let him ncA'er be so
carried aAvay as to forget that preaching is his
object.

A black soldier in a West Indian regiment,
tied up to receh’e a couple of dozen for drunk-
enness, cried out to his captain, Avho Avas ex-
horting him to sobriety in future, “Cap’n, if
you preachee, preachee ; and if floggee, floggee ;
but no preachee and floggee too !” to which his
captain might haA'C replied, “No, Pompey, I

PREFACE.

roust preach whenever I see a chance of being j
listened to, which I never did before ; so now
you must have it all together ; and I hope you
may remember some of it.”

There is one point which has been made by ,
several of the Reviewers who have noticed this
book, and it is one which, as I am writing a
Preface, I can not pass over. They have stated
that the Rugby undergraduates they remember at
the Universities were “a solemn array,” “ boys
turned into men before their time,” a “semi-po-
litical, semi-sacerdotal fraternity,” etc., giving
the idea that Arnold turned out a set of young
square-toes, who wore long-fingered black gloves,
and talked with a snuffle. I can only say that
their acquaintance must have been limited and
exceptional. For I am sure that every one who
has had any thing like large or continuous
knowledge of boys brouglit up at Rugby, from
the times of which this book treats down to this
day, will bear me out in saying, that the mark
by which you may know them is their genial
and hearty freshness and youthfulness of char-
acter. They lose nothing of the boy that is
W'orth keeping, but build up the man upon it.
This is their differentia as Rugby boys ; and if
they never had it, or have lost it, it must be not
because they were at Rugby, but in spite of their
having been there ; the stronger it is in them
the more deeply you may be sure have they
drunk of the spirit of their school.

But this boyisliness in the highest sense is
not incompatible with seriousness — or earnest-
ness, if you like the word better.* Quite the
contrary. And I can well believe that casual
observers, who have never been intimate with
Rugby boys of the true stamp, but have met
them only in the every-day society of the Uni-
versities, at wines, breakfast parties, and the
like, may have seen a good deal more of the
serious or earnest side of their characters than
any other. For the more the boy was alive in
them, the less will they have been able to con-
ceal their thoughts, or their opinion on what
was taking place under their noses ; and if the
greater part of that didn’t square with their no-
tions of what was right, very likely they showed
pretty clearly that it did not, at whatever risk

* “ To him (Arnold) and his admirers we owe the sub-
stitution of the word ‘earnest’ for its predecessor ‘se-
rious.’ ” — Edinburgh Review, No. 217. p. 1S3.

of being taken for young prigs. They may be
open to the charge of having old heads on young
shoulders : I think they are, and always were,
as long as I can remember ; but so long as they
have young hearts to keep head and shoulders
in order, I, for one, must think this only a gain.

And what gave Rugby boys this character,
and has enabled the School, I believe, to keep it
to this day ? I say fearlessly — Arnold’s teach-
ing and example ; above all, that part of it Avhich
has been, I will not say sneered at, but certain-
ly not approved — his unwearied zeal in creating
“ moral thoughtfulness ” in every boy with whom
he came into personal contact.

He certainly did teach us — thank God for it !
— that we could not cut our life into slices and
say, “ In this slice your actions are indifferent,
and you needn’t trouble your heads about them
one way or another ; but in this slice mind what
you are about, for they are important ” — a pret-
ty muddle we should have been in had he done
so. He taught us that, in this wonderful world,
no boy or man can tell which of his actions is
indifferent, and which not ; that by a thought-
less word or look wo may lead astray a brother
for whom Christ died. He taught us that life
is a whole, made up of actions and thoughts and
longings, great and small, noble and ignoble ;
therefore the only true wdsdom for boy or man
is to bring the whole life into obedience to Him
whose world we live in, and who has purchased
us with Ilis blood ; and that whether we eat or
drink, or whatsoever we do, we are to do all in
His name and to His glory ; in such teaching,
faithfully, as it seems to me, following that of
Paul of Tarsus, who w’as in the habit of mean-
ing what he said, and who laid down this stand-
ard for every man and boy in his time. I think
it lies with those who say that such teaching will
not do for us now, to show why a teacher in the
nineteenth century is to preach a lower standard
than one in the first.

However, I won’t say that the Reviewers have
not a certain plausible ground for their dicta.
For a short time after a boy has taken up such a
life as Arnold would have urged upon him, he
has a hard time of it. He finds his judgment
often at fault, his body and intellect running
away with him into all sorts of pitfalls, and him-
self coming down with a crash. The more seri-
ously he buckles to his work the oftener these

PREFACE.

mischances seem to happen ; and in the dust of
liis tumbles and struggles, unless he is a very ex-
traordinary boy, he may often be too severe on
his comrades, may think he sees evil in things
innocent, may give offense when he never meant
it. At this stage of his career, I take it, our
Reviewer comes across him, and, not looking
below the surface (as a Reviewer ought to do),
at once sets the poor boy down for a prig and a
Pharisee, when in all likelihood he is one of the
humblest and truest and most childlike of the
Reviewer’s acquaintance.

But let our Reviewer come across him again
in a year or two, when the “thoughtful life”

has become habitual to him, and fits him as
easily as his skin ; and, if he be honest, I think
he will see cause to reconsider his judgment.
For he will find the boy, grown into a man, en-
joying every-day life as no man can who has
not found out whence comes the capacity for en-
joyment, and Who is the Giver of the least of
the good things of this world — humble as no
man can be who has not proved his own power-
lessness to do right in the smallest act which he
ever had to do — tolerant as no man can be who
does not live daily and hourly in the knowledge
of how Perfect Love is forever about his path,
and bearing with and upholding him.

CONTENTS

PART I.

CHAPTER I,

The .Bkowk Family

CHAPTER II.

The “Veast”

CHAPTER III.
Sundry Wars and Alliances. .

CHAPTER IV.

The Stage-Coach

CHAPTER V.

Rugby and Football....

CHAPTER VI.

After the Match ...

CHAPTER VII.
Settling to the Collar

CHAPTER VIII.
The War or Independence....

CHAPTER IX.

A Chapter of Accidents

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

How the Tide turned 81

CHAPTER II.

The New Boy 87

CHAPTER III.

Arthur makes a Friend 92

CHAPTER IV.

The Bird-Fanciers 97

CHAPTER V.

The Fight 101

CHAPTER VI.

Fever in the School 110

CHAPTER VII.

East’s Dilemjlvs and Deliverances 117

CHAPTER VIII.

Tom Brown’s Last Match 123

CHAPTER IX.

Finis 131

PAGE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAET I.

Capture of Tom and Jacob Doodle- calf at the School-porch.

Portrait of Mr. Hughes

Tom after the Pig

Benjy, Tom., and the Girls at the F air

Willunis Defeat at Back-swording

Tom and Playmates coming Home

Squire Brown's Parting Words

The Battle with the ‘•‘'Pats"

Tom's first Exploit at Football

Waiting for Roast Potatoes in Sally Harrowell's Kitchen. .

Portrait of Dr. Arnold

The Night Fag

Tadpole's Mishap

Reception by the Doctor of Tom, East, and the Tadpole

Roasting a Fag

Flashman's Defeat by Tom and East

Tom discovered by Velveteens

DEAWN BY

.Akthuk Hughes.. F^zecc.

Title.

“ Page 20

“ 22

“ 31

“ 34

. Sidney Hall 38

.Aetiiur Hughes 47

, Sidney Hall 57

.Arthur Hughes 59

“ 61

PAET II.

DEAWN BY

East and Mrs. Wixie Arthur Hughes,

Tom's first Sight of Arthur “

Tom's first Defense of Arthur “

Tom and Arthur in Cloister “

Tom comforting Arthur “

Martin's Blow-up Sidney Hall. .

Climbing the Fir-tree after the Kestrel's Nest Arthur Hughes.

Tom and East plucking the Duck

Running for a Convoy

The Fight

Tom's Visit to Arthur after the Fever

Tom and Arthur's Mother

East unburdening himself to Tom

The Conversation during the Match

Tom and the Master's Survey of the Cook's Cupboard.

Chairing Tom in the Quadrangle...

Visit to the Tomb of Dr. Arnold.

101

102

107

112

IIG

122

126

129

132

13-3

Tom Brownes School Days,

By An Old Boy.

' f For centuries, in their quiet, dogged, home-spun

CHAPTl^R I.

THE EROWH FAMILY.

“ I'm the poet of White Horse Vale, sir,

With liberal notions under my cap.” — Ballad.

The Browns have become illustrious by the
pen of Thackeray and the pencil of Doyle,
within the memory of the young gentlemen who
are now matriculating at the Universities. Not-
withstanding the well-merited but late fame
which has now fallen upon them, any one at
all acquainted with the family must feel that
much has yet to be written and said before the
British nation will be properly sensible of how
much of its greatness it owes to the Browns.

way, they have been subduing the earth in most
English counties, and leaving their mark in
American forests and Australian uplands.
Wherever the fleets and armies of England have
won renown, there stalwart sons of the Browns
have done yeomen’s work. With the yew bow
and cloth-yard shaft at Cressy and Agincourt —
with the brown bill and pike under the brave
Lord Willoughby — with culverin and demi-cul-
verin against Spaniards and Dutchmen — with
hand-grenade and sabre, and musket and bayo-
net, under Rodney and St. Vincent, Wolfe and
Moore, Nelson and Wellington, they have car-
ried their lives in their hands ; getting hard
knocks and hard work in plenty, which was on
the whole what they looked for, and the best
thing for them ; and little praise or pudding,
which indeed they, and most of us, are better
without. Talbots and Stanleys, St. Maurs, and
such-like folk have led armies and made laws
time out of mind ; but those noble families
would be somewhat astounded — if the accounts
ever came to be fairly taken — to find how small
their work for England has been by the side of
that of the Browns.

These latter, indeed, have until the present
generation rarely been sung by poet, or chron-
icled by sage. They have wanted their “ saccr
vates,” having been too solid to rise to the top
by themselves, and not having been largely gift-
ed with the talent of catching hold of, and hold-
ing on tight to, whatever good things happened
to be going — the foundation of the fortunes of
so many noble families. But the world goes on
its way, and the wheel turns, and the wrongs
of the Browns, like other wrongs, seem in a
fair way to get righted. And this present
writer, having for many years of his life been
a devout Brown-worshipper^ and moreover hav-
ing the honor of being nearly connected with
an eminently respectable branch of the great
Brown famil}', is anxious, so far as in him lies,
to help the wheel over, and throw his stone on
to the pile.

However, gentle reader, or simple reader,

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

whichever you may be, lest you should be led to
waste your precious time upon these pages, I
make so bold as at once to tell you the sort of
folk you’ll have to meet and put up with, if
you and I are to jog on comfortably together.
You shall hear at once what sort of folk the
Browns arc, at least my branch of them ; and
then if you don’t like the sort, why cut the con-
cern at once, and let you and I cry quits before
either of us can grumble at the other.

In the first place, the Browns are a fighting
family. One may question their wisdom, or
wit, or beauty, but about their fight there can
be no question. Wherever hard knocks of any
kind, visible or invisible, are going, there the
Brown who is nearest must shove in his carcass.
And these carcasses for the most part answer
very well to the characteristic propensity ; they
are a square-headed and snake-necked genera-
tion, broad in the shoulder, deep in the chest,
and thin in the flank, carrying no lumber.
Then for clanship, they are as bad as High-
landers ; it is amazing the belief they have in
one another. With them there is nothing like
the Browns, to the third and fourth generation.
“Blood is thicker than water,” is one of their
pet sayings. They can’t be happy unless they
;ire always meeting one another. Never were
such people for family gatherings, which, were
you a stranger, or sensitive, you might think
liad better not have been gathered together.
For during the whole time of their being together
they luxuriate in telling one another their minds
on whatever subject turns up; and their minds are
wonderfully antagonistic, and all their opinions
are downright beliefs. Till you’ve been among
them some time and understand them, you can’t
think but that they are quarrelling. Not a bit
of it ; they love and respect one another ten
times the more after a good set family arguing
bout, and go back, one to his curacy, another to
his chambers, and another to his regiment,
freshened for work, and more then ever con-
vinced that the Browns are the height of com-
pany.

This family training, too, combined with their
turn for combativeness, makes them eminently
quixotic. They can’t let any thing alone which
they think going wrong. They must speak their
mind about it, annoying all easy-going folk ;
and spend their time and money in having a
tinker at it, however hopeless the job. It is an
impossibility to a Brown to leave the most dis-
reputable lame dog on the other side of a stile.
Most other folk get tired of such Avork. The
old Browns, with red faces, white xvhiskers, and
bald heads, go on believing and fighting to a
green old age. They have always a crotchet
going, till the old man with the scythe reaps
and garners them away for troublesome old boys
as they are.

And the most provoking thing is, that no
failures knock them up, or make them hold their
hands, or think you, or me, or other sane peo-
ple in the right. Failures slide off them like
July rain off a duck’s back-feathers. Jem and

his whole family turn out bad, and cheat them
one week, and the next they are doing the same
thing for Jack ; and when he goes to the tread-
mill, and his wife and children to the workhouse,
they Avill be on the look-out for Bill to take his
place.

However, it is time for us to get from the
general to the particular ; so, leaving the great
army of Browns, who are scattered over the
whole empire on Avhich the sun never sets, and
whose general diffusion I take to be the chief
cause of that empire’s stability, let us at once
fix our attention upon the small nest of Browns
in which our hero was hatched, and which dwelt
in that portion of the Royal county of Berks
which is called the Vale of White Horse,

Most of you have probably travelled down
the Great Western Railway as far as Swindon.
Those of you Avho did so Avith their eyes open
have been aAvare, soon after leaving the Didcot
station, of a fine range of chalk hills running
parallel with the railway on the left-hand side
as you go down, and distant some tAvo or three
miles, more or less, from the line. The high-
est point in the range is the White Horse Hill,
Avhich you come in front of just before you stop
at the Shrivenham Station. If you love Eng-
lish scenery and haA^e a fcAv hours to spare, you
can’t do better, the next time you pass, than
stop at the Farringdon - road, or Shrivenham
station, and make your Avay to that highest point.
And those Avho care for the vague old stories
that haunt country sides all about England, will
not, if they are Avise, be content Avith only a fcAV
hours’ stay ; for, glorious as the vicAV is, the
neighborhood is yet more interesting for its rel-
ics of by-gone times. I only knoAv two English
neighborhoods thoroughly, and in each, Avithin
a circle of fiv^e miles, there is enough of interest
and beauty to last any reasonable man his life.
I believe this to be the case almost throughout
the country, but each has a special attraction,
and none can be richer than the one I am speak-
ing of and going to introduce you to very par-
ticularly ; for on this subject I must be prosy ;
so those that don’t care for England in detail
may skip the chapter.

O young England! young England! You
who are born into these racing railroad times,
when there’s a Great Exhibition, or some mon-
ster sight, every year, and you can get over a
couple of thousand miles of ground for three
pound ten, in a five Aveeks’ holiday, Avhy don’t
you knoAV more of your own birth -iflaces?
You’re all in the ends of the earth, it seems to
me, as soon as you get your necks out of the ed-
ucational collar for midsummer holidays, long
vacations, or Avhat not. Going round Ireland,
Avith a return -ticket, in a fortnight; dropping
your copies of Tennyson on the tops of SAviss
mountains; or pulling doAvn the Danube in Ox-
ford racing-boats. And Avhen you get home for
a quiet fortnight, you turn the steam off, and lie
on your backs in the paternal garden, surround-
ed by the last batch of books from Mudie’s li-
brary, and half bored to death. Well, Avell ! I

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

know it has its good side. You all patter French
more or less, and perhaj)s German ; you have
seen men and cities, no doubt, and have your
opinions, such as they arc, about schools of
painting, high art, and all that ; have seen the
pictures at Dresden and the Louvre, and know
the taste of sour-krout. All I say is, you don’t
know your own lanes and woods and fields.
Though you may be chock-full of science, not
one in twenty of you knows where to find the
wood-sorrel, or bee-orchis, which grow in the
next wood, or on the down three miles off, or
what the bog-bean and wood-sage are good for.
And as for the country legends, the stories of the
old gable-ended farm-houses, the place where the
last skirmish was fought in the civil wars, where
the jiarish butts stood, where the last highway-
man turned to bay; where the last ghost was
laid by the parson, they’re gone out of date al-
together.

Now, in my time, when we got home by the
old coach, which put us down at the cross-roads
with our boxes, the first day of the holidays, and
had been driven off by the family coachman,
singing “Dulcc domum ” at the top of our
voices, there we were, fixtures, till black Mon-
day came round. We had to cut out our own
amusements within a walk or a ride of home.
And so we got to know all the country folk, and
their ways and songs and stories, by heart ; and
went over the fields and woods and hills again
and again, till we made friends of them all. We
were Berkshire, or Gloucestershire, or Yorkshire
boys : and you’re young cosmopolites, belonging
to all counties and no countries. No doubt it’s
all right; I dare say it is. This is the day of
large views and glorious humanity, and all that ;
but I wish backsword play hadn’t gone out in
the Vale of White Horse, and that that con-
founded Great Western hadn't carried away Al-
fred’s Hill to make an embankment.

But to return to the said Yale of Wliite Horse,
the country in which the first scenes of this true
and interesting story are laid. As I said, the
Great Western now runs right through it, and it
is a land of large rich pastures, bounded by ox-
fences, and covered with fine hedgerow timber,
with here and there a nice little gorse or spin-
ney, where abideth poor Charley, having no oth-
er cover to which to betake himself for. miles
and miles, when pushed out some fine Novem-
ber morning by the Old Berkshire. Those who
have been there, and well mounted, only know
how he and the stanch little pack who dash af-
ter him — heads high and sterns low, with a
breast-high scent — can consume the ground at
such times. There being little plough-land, and
few woods, the Vale is only an average sporting
country, except for hunting. The villages are
straggling, queer, old-fashioned places, the
houses being dropped down without the least
regularity, in nooks and out-of-the-way corners,
by the sides of shadowy lanes and footpaths,
each with its patch of garden. They are built
chiefly of good gray-stone and thatched ; though
I see that wirliin tlie last year or two the red

brick cottages are multiplying, for the Vale is
beginning to manufacture largely both bricks and
tiles. There are lots of waste ground by the side
of the roads in every village, amounting often to
village greens, where feed the pigs and ganders
of the people ; and these roads are old-fashion-
ed, homely roads, very dirty and badly made,
and hardly endurable in winter, but still pleas-
ant jog-trot roads, running through the great
j)asture-lands, dotted here and there with little
clumps of thorns, where the sleek kine are feed-
ing, with no fence on either side of them, and a
gate at the end of each field, which makes you
get out of your gig (if you keep one), and gives
you a chance of looking about you every quarter
of a mile.

One of the moralists whom we sat under in
our youth — was it the great Richard Swiveller,
or Mr. Stiggins ? — says, “ We are born in a vale,
and must take the consequences of being found
in such a situation.” These consequences, I for
one am ready to encounter. I pity people who
weren’t born in a vale. I don’t mean a flat
country, but a vale ; that is, a flat country bound-
ed by hills. The having your hill always in
view if you choose to turn towards him, that’s
the essence of a vale. There he is forever in
the distance, your friend and companion ; you
never lose him as you do in hilly districts.

And then what a hill is the White Horse Hill !
There it stands right up above all the rest, nine
hundred feet above the sea, and the boldest,
bravest shape for a chalk hill that you ever saw.
Let us go up to the top of him, and see what is
to be found there. Ay, you may well wonder,
and think it odd you never heard of this before ;
but, wonder or not, as you please, there are hun-
dreds of such things lying about England, which
wiser folk than you know nothing of, and care
nothing for. Yes, it’s a magnificent Roman
camp, and no mistake, with gates, and ditch,
and mounds, all as complete as it was twenty
years after the strong old rogues left it. Here,
right up on the highest point, from which they
say you can see eleven counties, they trenched
round all the table-land, some twelve or fourteen
acres, as was their custom, for they could’nt bear
any body to overlook them, and made their eyrie.
The ground falls away rapidly on all sides. Was
there ever such turf in the whole world ? You
sink up to your ankles at every step, and yet
the spring of it is delicious. There is always a
bi-eeze in the “camp,” as it is called, and here
it lies, just as the Romans left it, except that
cairn on the east side, left by Her Majesty’s corps
of Sappers and Miners the other day, when they
and the Engineer officer had finished their so-
journ there, and their surveys for the Ordnance
Map of Berkshire. It is altogether a place that
you won’t forget — a place to open a man’s soul
and make him prophesy, as he looks down on
that great Vale spread out as the garden of the
Lord before him, and wave on wave of the mys-
terious downs behind ; and to the right and left
the chalk hills running aw.Qy into the distance,
along which he can trace for miles tlie old Ro-

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

man road, “the Ridgeway” (“the Rudge” as
tlie country folk call it), keeping straight along
the highest back of the hills ; such a place as
Balak brought Balaam to, and told him to
prophesy against the people in the valley be-
neath. And he could not, neither shall you,
for they are a people of the Lord who abide
tliere.

And now we leave the camp, and descend
towards the west, and are on the Ash-down.
We are treading on heroes. It is sacred ground
for Englishmen, more sacred than all but one
or two fields where their bones lie whitening.
For this is the actual place where our Alfred won
his great battle, the battle of Ashdown (“^scen-
dum ” in the chroniclers), which broke the
Danish power, and made England a Christian
land. The Danes held the camp and the slope
where we are standing — the whole crown of the
hill, in fact. “The heathen had beforehand
seized the higher ground,” as old Asser says,
having wasted every thing behind them fi’om
London, and being just ready to burst down on
the fair vale, Alfred’s own birth-place and heri-
tage. And up the heights came the Saxons, as
they did at the Alma. “The Christians led up
their line from the lower ground. There stood
also on that same spot a single thorn-tree, mar-
vellous stumpy (which we ourselves with our very
own eyes have seen).” Bless the old chronicler !
does he think nobody ever saw the “single thorn-
tree” but himself? Why, there it stands to
this very day, just on the edge of the slope, and
I saw it not three weeks since ; an old single
thorn-tree, “ marvellous stumpy.” At least, if
it isn’t the same tree, it ought to have been, for
it’s just in the place where the battle must have
been won or lost — “around which, as I was
saying, the two lines of foemen came together
in battle with a huge shout. And in this place
one of the two Kings of the heathen and five of
his earls fell down and died, and many thou-
sands of the heathen side in the same place.”*
After which crowning mercy, the pious King,
that there might never be wanting a sign and a
memorial to the country-side, carved out on the
northern side of the chalk hill, under the camp,
where it is almost precipitous, the great Saxon
white horse, which he who will may sec from
the railway, and which gives its name to the
vale, over which it has looked these thousand
years and more.

Right down below the White Horse is a curi-
ous deep and broad gully called “ the Manger,”
into one side of which the hills fall with a series
of the most lovely sweeping curves, known as

• “ Pagani editiorem locum prarocciipaverant. Christi-
ani ab inferiovi loco acieni dirigebant. Krat quotiuo in
eodem loco unica spinosa arbor, brevis admodum (quani
nos ipsi nostris propriis ociilis vidimus). Circa quam ci’go
hostiles inter se acies cum ingenti clamore hostiliter con-
veniunt. Quo in loco alter de duobus Paganorum regibus
ct qiiinque comites occisi occubuerunt, et miilta milUa
l^aganee partis in eodem loco. Cccidit illic ergo Boegsceg
Pex, et Sidroc ille scnex comes, et Sidroc Junior comes,
et Obsbern comes,” etc. — Annales Rerum Ges^nruvi JEl-
f-p.di Mafini, Auctore Asscrio, Rcccnsuit Fransiscus
(I'is: (Oxford, 1722, p. 2S).

the “Giant’s Stairs;” they are not a bit like
stairs, but I never saw any thing like them any-
where else, with their short green turf, and ten-
der blue-bells, and gossamer and thistle-down
gleaming in the sun, and the sheep-paths run-
ning along their sides like ruled lines.

The other side of the Manger is formed by the
Dragon's Hill, a curious little round self-confi-
dent fellow, thrown forward from the range, and
utterly unlike every thing round him. On this
hill some deliverer of mankind— St. George, the
country folk used to tell me — killed a dragon.
Whether it were St. George, I can not say ; but
surely a dragon was killed there, for you may
see the marks yet where his blood ran down,
and more by token the place where it ran down
is the easiest w'ay up the hill-side.

Passing along the Ridgeway to the west for
about a mile, we come to a little clump of young
beech and firs, with a growth of thorn and privet
underwood. Here you may find nests of the
strong down partridge and peewit, but take care
that the keeper isn’t down upon you ; and in
the middle of it is an old cromlech, a huge fiat
stone raised on seven or eight others, and led
up to by a path, Avith large single stones set up
on each side. This is Wayland Smith’s cave,
a place of classic fame noAv; but as Sir Walter
has touched it, I may as Avell let it alone, and
refer you to Kenilworth for the legend.

The thick deep wood which you see in the
holloAV, about a mile off, surrounds Ashdown
Park, built by Inigo Jones. Four broad alleys
are cut through the wood, from circumference
to centre, and each leads to one face of the
house. The mystery of the downs hangs about
house and Avood, as they stand there alone,
so unlike all around, with the green slopes,
studded Avith great stones just about this part,
stretching aAvay on all sides. It Avas a Avise
Lord Craven, I think, who pitched his tent
there.

Passing along the RidgCAvay to the east, Ave
soon come to cultivated land. The doAvns,
strictly so called, are no more; Lincolnshire
farmers have been imported, and the long fresh
slopes are sheep-Avalks no more, butgroAV famous
•turnips and barley. One of these improvers
lives over there at the “ Seven BarroAvs” farm,
another mystery of the great downs. There are
the barroAvs still, solemn and silent, like ships
in the calm sea, the sepulchres of some sons
of men. But of Avhom ? It is three miles from
the White Horse, too far for the slain of Ash-
down to be buried there — Avho shall say what
heroes are Availing there ? But Ave must get
doAvn into the Vale again, and so aAvay by the
Great Western Raihvay to toAim, for time and
the printer’s devil press, and it is a terrible long
and slippery descent, and a shocking bad road.
At the bottom, hoAvever, there is a pleasant pub-
lic, Avhereat Ave must really take a modest
quencher, for the down air is provocath’e of
thirst. So Ave pull up under an old oak Avhich
stands before the door.

“ What is the name of your hill, landlord ?”

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

“Blawing Stwun Hill, sir, to be sure.”

[Reader. Sturm?"

Author. “ Stone, stupid : the Blowing

<S/one.”]

“ And of your house ? I can’t make out the
sign.”

“ Blawing Stwun, sir,” says the landlord,
pouring out his old ale from a Toby Philpot jug,
with a m&lodious crash, into the long-necked
glass.

“ What queer names !” say we, sighing at the
end of our draught, and holding out the glass to
be replenished.

“ Bean’t queer at all, as I can see, sir,” says
mine host, handing-back our glass, “ seeing as
this here is the Blawing Stwun his self put-
ting his hand on a square lump of stone, some
three feet and a half high, perforated with two
or three queer holes, like petrified antediluvian
rat-holes, which lies there close under the oak,
under our very nose. We are more than ever
puzzled, and drink our second glass of ale, won-
dering what will come next. “Like to hear
un, sir?” says mine host, setting down Toby
Philpot on the tray, and resting both hands on
the “Stwun.” We are ready for any thing;
and he, without waiting for a reply, applies his
mouth to one of the rat holes. Something must
come of it, if he doesn’t burst. Good heavens !
I hope he has no apoplectic tendencies. Yes,
here it comes, sure enough, a grewsome sound
between a moan and a roar, and spreads itself
away over the valley, and up the hill-side, and
into the woods at the back of the house, a ghost-
like awful voice. “ Um do say, sir,” says mine
host, rising purple-faced while the moan is still
coming out of the Stwun, “as they used in old
times to warn the country-side, by blawing
the Stwun when the enemy was a cornin’ — and
as how folks could make un heered then for
seven mile round : leastways, so I’ve heered
lawyer Smith say, and he knows a smart sight
about them old times.” We can hardly swal-
low lawyer Smith’s seven miles, but could the
blowing of the stone have been a summons, a
sort of sending the fiery cross round the neigh-
borhood in the old times ? What old times ?
Who knows ? We pay for our beer, and are
thankful.

“ And what’s the name of the village just be-
low, landlord?”

“ Kingstone Lisle, sir.”

“ Fine plantations you’ve got here.”

“Yes sir, the Squire’s ’mazin fond of trees
and such like.”

“ No wonder. He’s got some real beauties
to be fond of. Good-day, landlord.”

“Good-day, sir, and a pleasant ride to ’e.”

And now, my boys, you whom I want to get
for readers, have you had enough ? Will you
give in at once, and say you’re convinced, and
let me begin my story, or will you have more of
it ? Remember, I’ve only been over a little bit
of the hillside yet, what you could ride round
easily on your ponies in an hour. I’m only
just come down into the vale, by Blowing Stone
2

Hill ; and if I once begin about the vale, what’s
to stop me? You’ll have to hear all about
Wantage, the birthplace of Alfred, and Farring-
don, which held out so long for Charles the
First (the vale was near Oxford, and dreadfully
malignant ; full of Thrograortons, Puseys, and
Pyes, and such like, and their brawny retainers).
Did you ever read Thomas Ingoldsby’s “ Legend
of Hamilton Tighe ?” If you haven’t, you ought
to have. Well, Farringdon is where he lived,
before he went to sea ; his real name was Ham-
den Pye, and the Pyes were the great folk at
Farringdon. Then there’s Pusey. You’ve heard
of the Pusey horn, which King Canute gave to
the Puseys of that day, and which the gallant
old squire, lately gone to his rest (whom Berk-
shire freeholders turned out of last Parliament,
to their eternal disgrace, for voting according
to. his conscience), used to bring out on high
days, holidays, and bonfire nights. And the
splendid old Cross church at Ufiington, the
Ufiingas town ; — how the whole country-side
teems with Saxon names and memories ! And
the old moated grange at Compton, nestled
close under the hillside, where twenty Marianas
may have lived, with its bright water-lilies in
the moat, and its yew walk, “the cloister
walk,” and its peerless terraced gardens. There
they all are, and twenty things besides, for those
who care about them, and have eyes. And
these are the sort of things you may find, I be-
lieve, every one of you, in any common English
country neighborhood.

Will you look for them under your own noses,
or will you not? Well, well. I’ve done what I
can to make you ; and if you will go gadding
over half Europe now every holidays, I can’t
help it. I was born and bred a west-country-
man, thank God ! a Wessex man, a citizen of
the noblest Saxon kingdom of Wessex, a regu-
lar “Angular Saxon,” the very soul of me
“adseriptus glebse.” There’s nothing like the
old country-side for me, and no music like the
twang of the real old Saxon tongue, as one gets
it fresh from the veritable chaw in the White
Horse Vale : and I say with “ Gaarge Ridler,”
the old west-country yeoman :

“ Throo aall the waarld owld Gaarge would bwoast,
Commend me to merry owld England mwoast :
While vools gwoes prating vur and nigh,

We stwops at whum, my dog and I.”

Here at any rate lived and stopped at homo
Squire Brown, J. P. for the county of Berks,
in a village near the foot of the White Horse
range. And here he dealt out justice and mer-
cy in a rough way, and begat sons and daugh-
ters, and hunted the fox, and grumbled at the
badness of the roads and the times. And his
wife dealt out stockings, and calico shirts, and
smock frocks, and comforting drinks to the old
folks with the “ rheumatiz,” and good counsel
to all ; and kept the coal and clothes-clubs go-
ing, for Yule-tide, when the bands of mummers
came round dressed out in ribbons and colored
paper caps, and stamped round the Squire’s
kitchen, repeating in true sing-song vernacular

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

the legend of St. George and his fight, and the
ten-pound Doctor, who jdavs his part at heal-
ing the Saint — a relic, I believe, of the old
middle-age mysteries. It was the first dramat-
ic representation which greeted the eyes of lit-
tle Tom, who was brought down into the kitch-
en by his nurse to witness it, at the mature age
of three years. Tom was the eldest child of
liis parents, and from his earliest babyhood
exhibited the family characteristics in great
strength. He was a hearty strong boy from
the first, given to fighting with and escaping
from his nurse, and fraternizing with all the
village boys, with whom he made expeditions
all round the neighborhood. And here in the
quiet old-fashioned country village, under the
shadow of the everlasting hills, Tom Brown was
reared, and never left it till he went first to
school when nearly eight years of age, for in
those days change of air twice a year was not
thought absolutely necessary for the health of
all her Majesty’s lieges.

I have been credibly informed, and am in-
clined to believe, that the various Boards of Di-
rectors of Railway Companies, those gigantic
jobbers and bribers, while quarrelling about
every thing else, agreed together some ten years
back to buy up the learned profession of medi-
cine, body and soul. To this end they set apart
several millions of money, which they continual-
ly distribute judiciously among the doctors, stipu-
lating only this one thing, that they shall pre-
scribe change of air to every patient who can
))ay, or borrow money to pay, a railway fare,
and see their prescription carried out. If it be
not for this, why is it that none of us can be
well at home for a year together ? It wasn’t so
twenty years ago — not a bit of it. The Browns
didn’t go out of the county once in five years.
A visit to Reading or Abingdon twice a year,
at Assizes or Quarter Sessions, which the Squire
made on his horse, with a pair of saddle-bags
containing his wardrobe — a stay of a day or
two at some country neighbor’s — or an expedi-
tion to a county ball or the yeomanry review —
made up the sum of the Brown locomotion in
most years. A stray Brown from some distant
county dropped in every now and then ; or from
Oxford, on grave nag, an old don, contemporary
of the Squire ; and were looked upon by the
Brown household and the villagers with the
same sort of feeling with which we now regard
a man who has crossed the Rocky Mountains,
or launched a boat on the great lake in Central
Africa. The White Horse Vale, remember,
was traversed by no great road; nothing but
country parish roads, and these very bad. Only
one coach ran there, and this one only from
Wantage to London, so that the western part
of the vale was without regular means of moving
on, and certainly didn’t seem to want them.
There was the canal, by the way, which supplied
the country-side with cotil, and up and down
which continually went the long barges, with
the big black men lounging by the side of the
horses along tlie towing-path, and the women in

bright colored handkerchiefs standing in the
sterns steering. Standing, I say, but you could
never see whether they were standing or sitting,
all but their heads and shoulders being out of
sight in the cosy little cabins which occupied
some eight feet of the stern, and which Tom
Brown pictured to himself as the most desirable
of residences. His nurse told him that those
good-natured-looking women were in the con-
stant habit of enticing children into the barges
and taking them up to London and selling
them, which Tom wouldn’t believe, and which
made him resolve as soon as possible to accept
the oft-profiered invitation of these syrens to
“young Master,” to come in and have a ride.
But as yet the nurse was too much for Tom.

Yet why should I after all abuse the gadabout
propensities of my countrymen? We are a
vagabond nation now, that’s certain, for better,
for worse. I am a vagabond : I have been
away from home no less than five distinct times
in the last year. The Queen sets us the exam-
ple— we are moving bn from top to bottom.
Little dirty Jack, w'ho abides in Clement’s Inn
gateway, and blacks my boots for a penny, takes
his month’s hop-picking every year as a matter
of course. Why shouldn’t he? I’m delighted
at it. I love vagabonds, only I prefer poor to
rich ones : — couriers and ladies’ maids, imperi-
als and travelling carriages, are an abomination
unto me — I can not away with them. But for
dirty Jack, and every good fellow who, in the
words of the capital French song, moves about,

“ Comme le limagon,

Portant tout Fon bagnge,

Sea meubles, sa maison,”

on his own back, why, good luck to them, and
many a merry road-side adventure, and steam-
ing supper in the chimney-corners of road-side
inns, Swiss chalets,Hottentot kraals, or wherever
else they like to go. So having succeeded in
contradicting myself in my first chapter (which
gives me great hopes that you will all go on,
and think me a good fellow notwithstanding my
crotchets), I shall here shut up for the present,
and consider my ways ; having resolved to “ sar’
it out,” as we say in the Vale, “ holus bolus,”
just as it comes, and then you’ll probably get
the truth out of me.

CHAPTER II.

THE “VEAST.”

“ And the King commandetli and forbiddeth, that from
henceforth neither fairs nor markets be kept in church-
yards, for the honour of the Church.” — Statutes : 13 Edw. I.
Stat. II. c.ap. vi.

As that venerable and learned poet (whose
voluminous works we all think it the correct
thing to admire and talk about, but don’t read
often) most truly says, “The child is father to
the man a fortiori, therefore, he must be fa-
ther to the boy. So, as we are going at any rate
to see Tom Browm through his boyhood, sup-
posing wm never get any farther, which, if you

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

show a proper sense of the value of this history,
there is no knowing but what we may), let us
have a look at the life and environments of the
child, in the quiet country village to which we
were introduced in the last chapter.

Tom, as has been already said, was a robust
and combative urchin, and at the age of four
began to struggle against the yoke and authori-
ty of his nurse. That functionary was a good-
hearted, tearful, scatter-brained girl, lately taken
by Tom’s mother. Madam Brown, as she was
called, from the village school to be trained as
nursery-maid. Madam Brown was a rare train-
er of servants, and spent herself freely in the
profession ; for profession it was, and gave her
more trouble by half than many people take to
earn a good income. Her servants were known
and sought after for miles round. Almost all
the girls who attained a certain place in the vil-
lage school were taken by her, one or two at a
time, as house-maids, laundry-maids, nursery-
maids, or kitchen-maids, and, after a year or
two’s drilling, were started in life amongst the
neighboring families, with good principles and
wardrobes. One of the results of this system
was the perpetual despair of Mrs. Brown’s cook
and own maid, who no sooner had a notable
girl made to their hands, than Missus was sure
to find a good place for her and send her off,
taking in fresh importations from the school.
Another was, that the house was always full of
young girls with clean shining faces ; who broke
plates and scorched linen, but made an atmos-
phere of cheerful homely life about the place,
good for every one who came within its influ-
ence. Mrs. Brown loved young people, and in
fact human creatures in general, above plates
and linen. They were more like a lot of elder
children than servants, and felt to her more as
a mother or aunt than as a mistress.

Tom’s nurse was one who took in her instruc-
tion very slowly — she seemed to have two left
hands and no head ; and so Mrs. Brown kept
her on longer than usual, that she might ex-
pend her awkwardness and forgetfulness upon
those who would not judge and punish her too
strictly for them.

Charity Lamb was her name. It had been
the immemorial habit of the village to christen
children either by Bible names, or by those of
the cardinal and other virtues ; so that one was
forever hearing in the village street, or on the
green, shrill sounds of “Prudence! Prudence!
thee cum’ out o’ the gutter or, “ Mercy ! drat
the girl, what bist thee a doin’ wi’ little Faith ?”
and there were Ruths, Rachels, Keziahs, in every
corner. The same with the boys; they were
Benjamins, Jacobs, Noahs, Enochs. I suppose
the custom has come down from Puritan times
— there it is, at any rate, very strong still in the
Vale.

Well, from early morning till dewy eve, when
she had it out of him in the cold tub before put-
ting him to bed,''Charity and Tom were pitted
against one another. Physical power was as
yet on the side of Charity, but she hadn’t a chance

with him wherever head-work was wanted. Tliis
war of independence began every morning be-
fore breakfast, when Charity escorted her cliarge
to a neighboring farm-house which supplied the
Browns, and where, by his motlier’s wish. Mas-
ter Tom went to drink whey, before breakfast.
Tom had no sort of objection to whey, but lie
had a decided liking for curds, which were for-
bidden as unwholesome, and there was seldom a
morning that he did not manage to secure a
handful of hard curds, in defiance of Charity
and of the farmer’s wife. The latter good soul
was a gaunt angular woman, who, with an old
black bonnet on the top of her head, the strings
dangling about her shoulders, and her gown
tucked through her pocket-holes, went clatter-
ing about the dairy, cheese-room, and yard, in
high pattens. Charity was some sort of niece
of the old lady’s, and was consequently free of
the farm-house and garden, into which she could
not resist going for the purposes of gossip and
flirtation with the heir- apparent, who was a
dawdling fellow, never out at work as he ought
to have been. The moment Charity had found
her cousin, or any other occupation, Tom would
slip away ; and in a minute shrill cries would
be heard from the dairy, “Charity, Charity,
thee lazy hussy, where bist?” and Tom would
break cover, hands and mouth full of curds, and
take refuge on the shaky surface of the great
muck reservoir in the middle of the yard, dis-
turbing the repose of the great pigs. Here he
was in safety, as no grown person could follow
without getting over their knees ; and the luck-
less Charity, while her aunt scolded her from
the dairy-door, for being “ alius hankering about
arter our Willum, instead of minding Master
Tom,” would descend from threats to coaxing,
to lure Tom out of the muck, which was rising
over his shoes and would soon tell a tale on his
stockings, for which she would be sure to catch
it from Missus’s maid.

Tom had two abettors in the shape of a couple
of old boys, Noah and Benjamin by name, who
defended him from Charity, and expended much
time upon his education. They were both of
them retired servants of former generations of
the Browns. Noah Crooke was a keen dry old
man of almost ninety, but still able to totter
about. He talked to Tom quite as if he were
one of his own family, and indeed had long com-
pletely identified the Browns with himself. In
some remote age he had been the attendant of
a Miss Brown, and had conveyed her about the
country on a pillion. He had a little round
picture of the identical gray horse, caparisoned
with the identical pillion, before which he used
to do a sort of fetish worship, and abuse turn-
pike-roads and carriages. He wore an old full-
bottomed wig, the gift of some dandy old Brown
whom he had valeted in the middle of last cen-
tury, which habiliment Master Tom looked upon
with considerable respect, nnt to say fear ; and
indeed his whole feeling towards Noah was
strongly tainted with awe ; and when the o!d
gentleman was gathered to his fathers, Tom’s

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

lamentation over him was not unaccompanied by
a certain joy at having seen the last of the wig;
“Poor old Noah, dead and gone,” said he,
“ Tom Brown so sorry ! Put him in the coffin,
wig and all !”

But old Benjy was young Master’s real .de-
light and refuge. He was a youth by the side
of Noah, scai’ce seventy years old. A cheery,
humorous, kind-hearted old man, full of sixty
years of Vale gossip, and of all sorts of helpful
ways for young and old, but above all for chil-
dren. It w'as he who bent the first pin with
which Tom extracted his first stickleback out
of “ Pebbly Brook,” the little stream which ran
through the village. The first stickleback was
a splendid fellow, with fabulous red and blue
gills. Tom kept him in a small basin till the
day of his death, and became a fisherman from
that day. Within a month from the taking of
the first stickleback, Benjy had carried off our
hero to the canal, in defiance of Charity; and
between them, after a whole afternoon’s pop-
joying, they had caught three or four small
coarse fish and a perch, averaging perhaps two
and a half ounces each, which Tom bore home
in rapture to his mother as a precious gift, and
which she received like a true mother with
equal rapture, instructing the cook neverthe-
less, in a private interview, not to prepare the
same for the Squire’s dinner. Charity had ap-
pealed against old Benjy in the mean time, rep-
resenting the dangers of the canal banks ; but
Mrs. Brown, seeing the boy’s inaptitude for fe-
male guidance, had decided in Benjy’s favor,
and from thenceforth the old man was Tom’s

dry nurse. And as they sat by the canal
watching their little green and white float,
Benjy would instruct him in the doings of de-
ceased Browns. How his grandfather, in the
early days of the great war, when there was
much distress and crime in the Vale, and the
magistrates had been threatened by the mob,
had ridden in wdth a big stick in his hand, and
held the Petty Sessions by himself. How his
great uncle, the Rector, had encountered and
laid the last ghost, wdio had frightened the old
women, male and female, of the parish, out of
their senses, and who turned out to be the
blacksmith’s apprentice, disguised in drink and
a white sheet. It was Benjy too who saddled
Tom’s first pony, and instructed him. in the
mysteries of horsemanship, teaching him to
throw his weight back and keep his hand low ;
and who stood chuckling outside the door of
the girl’s school when Tom rode his little Shet-
land into the cottage and round the table,
where the old dame and her pupils were seated
at their work.

Benjy himself was come of a family distin-
guished in the Vale for their prowess in all ath-
letic games. Some half-dozen of his brothers
and kinsmen had gone to the wars, of whom
only one had survived to come home, with a
small pension, and three bullets in different
parts of his body; he had shared Benjy’s cot-
tage till his death, and had left him his old dra-
goon’s sword and pistol, which hung over the
mantel-piece, flanked by a pair of heavy single-
sticks, with which Benjy himself had won re-
nown long ago as an old gamester, against the

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

picked men of Wiltshire and Somersetshire, in
many a good bout at the revels and pastimes of
the country-side. For he had been a famous
back-sword man in ^is young days, and a good
wrestler at elbow and collar.

Back-swording and westling were the most
serious holiday pursuits of the Vale — those by
which men attained fame — and each village had
its champion. I suppose that, on the whole,
people were less worked than they are now ; at
any rate, they seemed to have more time and
energy for the old pastimes. The great times
for back-swording came round once a year in
each village, at the feast. The Vale “ veasts ”
were not the common statute feasts, but much
more ancient business. They are literally, so
far as one can ascertain, feasts of the dedication,
i. e., they were first established in the church-
yard on the day on which the village church
was opened for public worship, which was on
the wake or festival of the patron saint, and
have been held on the same day in every year
since that time.

There was no longer any remembrance of why
the “ veast ” had been instituted, but neverthe-
less it had a pleasant and almost sacred charac-
ter of its own. For it was then that all the
children of the village, wherever they were scat-
tered, tried to get home for a holiday to visit
their fathers and mothers and friends, bringing
with them their wages or some little gift from
up the country for the old folk. Perhaps for a
day or two before, but at any rate on “veast-
day ” and the day after, in our village, you
might see strapping healthy young men and
women from all parts of the country going
round from house to house in their best clothes,
and finishing up with a call on Madam Brown,
whom they would consult as to putting out their
earnings to the best advantage, or how best to
expend the same for the benefit of the old folk.:
Every household, however poor, managed to
raise a “ feast-cake ” and bottle of ginger or
raisin wine, which stood on the cottage table
ready for all comers, and not unlikely to make
them remember feast time — for feast-cake is
very solid and full of huge raisins. Moreover
feast-time was the day of reconciliation for the
parish. If Job Higgins and Noah Freeman
hadn’t spoken for the last six months, their
“old women” would be sure to get it patched
up by that day. And though there was a good
deal of drinking and low vice in the booths of
an evening, it was pretty well confined to those
who would have been doing the like, “ veast or
no veast and, on the whole, the effect was
humanizing and Christian. In fact, the only
reason why this is not the case still, is that gen-
tlefolk and farmers have taken to other amuse-
ments, and have, as usual, forgotten the poor.
They don’t attend the' feast themselves, and
call them disreputable, whereupon the steadiest
of the poor leave them also, and they become
what they are called. Class amusements, be
they for dukes or ploughboys, always become
nuisances and curses to a countrj\ The true

charm of cricket and hunting is, that they are
still more or less sociable and universal ; there's
a place for every man who will come and take
his part.

No one in the village enjoyed the approach
of “ veast-day ” more than Tom, in the year in
which he was taken under old Benjy’s tutelage.
The feast was held in a large green field at he
lower end of the village. The road to Far-
ringdon ran along one side of it, and the brook
by the side of the road ; and above the brook
was another large gentle sloping pasture-land,
with a foot-path running down it from the
church-yard ; and the old church, the originator
of all the mirth, towered up with its gray walls
and lancet windows, overlooking and sanction-
ing the whole, though its own share therein had
been forgotten. At the point where the foot-
path crossed the brook and road, and entered
on the field where the feast was held, was a
long low roadside inn, and on the opposite side
of the field was a large white thatched farm-
house, where dwelt an old sporting farmer, a
great promoter of the revels.

Past the old church, and down the footpath,
pottered the ' old man and the child hand in
hand early on the afternoon of the day before
the feast, and wandered all around the ground,
which was already being occupied by the
“cheap Jacks,” with their green-covered carts
and marvellous assortment of wares, and the
booths of more legitimate small traders with
their tempting arrays of fairings and eatables ;
and penny peep-shows and other shows, con-
taining pink-eyed ladies, and dwarfs, and boa-
constrictors, and wild Indians. But the object
of most interest to Benjy, and of Course to his
pupil also, was the stage of rough planks some
four feet high, which was being put up by the
village carpenter for the back-swording and
wrestling ; and after surveying the whole ten-
derly, old Benjy led his charge away to the
roadside inn, where he ordered a glass of ale
and a long pipe for himself, and discussed these
unwonted luxuries on the bench outside in the
soft autumn evening with mine host, another
old servant of the Browns, and speculated with
him on the likelihood of a good show of old
gamesters to contend for the morrow’s prizes,
and told tales of the gallant bouts forty years
back, to which Tom listened with all his ears
and eyes.

But who shall tell the joy of the nC.xt morn-
ing, when the church bells were ringing a mer-
ry peal, and old Benjy appeared in the servants’
hall, resplendent in a long blue coat and brass
buttons, and a pair of old yellow buckskins and
top-boots, which he had cleaned for and inher-
ited from Tom’s grandfather ; a stout thorii-
stick in his hand, and a nosegay of pinks and
lavender in his' button-hole, and led away Tom
in his best clothes, and two new shillings in his
breeches pockets? Those two^ at any rate,
look like enjoying the day’s revel.

They quicken their pace when they get into
the church-yard, for already they see the field

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

thronged with country folk, the men in clean
white smocks or velveteen or fustian coats, with
rough plush waistcoats of many colors, and the
women in the beautiful long scarlet cloak, the
usual outdoor dress of West-country women in
those days, and which often descended in fami-
lies from mother to daughter, or in new-fash-
ioned stuff shawls, which, if they would but be-
lieve it, don’t become them half so well. The
air resounds with the pipe and tabor, and the
drums and trumpets of the showmen shouting
at the doors of their caravans, over which tre-
mendous pictures of the wonders to be seen
within hang temptingly ; while through all
rises the shrill “ root-too-too-too ” of Mr.

knot of old schoolfellows, and drops a courtesy
to Mr. Benjamin. And elders come up from
all parts to salute Benjy, and girls who have
been Madam’s pupils to kiss Master Tom.
And they carry him off to load him with fair-
ings ; and he returns to Benjy, his hat and
coat covered with ribands, and his pockets
crammed with wonderful boxes which open
upon ever new boxes and boxes, and popguns
and trumpets, and apples, and gilt gingerbread
from the stall of Angel Heavens, sole vender
thereof, whose booth groans with kings and
queens, and elephants, and prancing steeds, all
gleaming with gold. There was more gold on
Angel’s cakes than there is ginger in those of

ISEhJY, TOM, ANU TUE GIKI.S AT THE I'AIK.

Punch, and the unceasing pan-pipe of his satel-
lite.

“Lawk a’ massej', Mr. Benjamin,” cries a
stout motherly woman in a red cloak, as they
enter the field, “be that you? Well I never!
you do look purely. And how’s the Squire,
and Madam, and the family ?”

Benjy graciously shakes hands with the
speaker, who has left our village for some
years, but has come over for Veast-day on a
visit to an old gossip — and gently indicates the
heir apparent of the Browns.

“Bless his little heart! I must gi’ un a
kiss. Here, Susannah, Susannah!” cries she,
raising herself from the embrace, “ come and
see Mr. Benjamin and young Master Tom.
You minds our Sukey, Mr. Benjamin ? she be
growed a rare slip of a wench since you seen
her, tho’ her’ll be sixteen come Martinmas. I
do aim to take her to see Madam to get her a
place.”

And Sukey comes bouncing away from a

this degenerate age. Skilled diggers might yet
make a fortune in the churchyards of the Vale,
by carefully washing the dust of the consumers
of Angel’s gingerbread. Alas! he is with his
namesakes, and his receipts have, 1 fear, died
with him.

And then they inspect the penny peep-show,
at least Tom does, while old Benjy stands out-
side and gossips, and walks up the steps, and
enters the mysterious doors of the pink-eyed
lady and the Irish Giant, who do not by any
means come up to their pictures ; and the boa
will not swallow his rabbit, but there the rabbit
is waiting to be swallowed — and what can you
expect for tuppence? We are easily pleased
in the Vale. Now there is a rush of the crowd,
and a tinkling bell is heard, and shouts of
laughter ; and Master Tom mounts on Benjy’s
shoulders, and beholds a jingling match in all
its glory. The games are begun, and this is
the opening of them. It is a quaint game, im-
mensely amusing to look at ; and as I don’t

TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS.

know whether it is used in your counties, I had
better describe it. A large roped ring is made,
into which are introduced a dozen or so of big
boys and young men who mean to play ; these
are carefully blinded and turned loose into the
ring, and then a man is introduced not blind-
folded, with a bell hung round his neck, and his
two hands tied behind him. Of course, every
time he moves the bell must ring, as he has no
hand to hold it, and so the dozen blindfolded
men have to catch him. This they can not al-
ways manage if he is a lively fellow, but half of
them always rush into the arms of the other
half, or drive their heads together, or tumble
over ; and then the crowd laughs vehemently,
and invents nicknames for them on the spur of
the moment, and they, if they be choleric, tear
off the handkerchiefs- which blind them, and
not unfrequently pitch into one another, each
thinking that the other must have run against
him on purpose. It is great fun to look at a
jingling match certainly, and Tom shouts and
jumps on old Benjy’s shoulders at the sight,
until the old man feels weary, and shifts him to
the strong young shoulders of the groom, who
has just got down to the fun.

And now, while they are climbing the pole
in another part of the field, and muzzling in a
flour-tub in another, the old farmer whose house,
as has been said, overlooks the field, and who is
master of the revels, gets up the steps on to the
stage, and announces to all whom it may concern
that a half-sovereign in money will be forthcom-
ing for the old gamester who breaks most heads ;
to which the Squire and he have added a new
hat.

The amount of the prize is sufficient to stimu-
late the men of the immediate neighborhood, but
not enough to bring any very high talent from a
distance ; so, after a glance or two round, a tall
fellow, who is a down shepherd, chucks his hat
on to the stage and climbs up the steps, looking
rather sheepish. The crowd of course first cheer,
and then chaff as usual, as he picks up his hat
and begins handling the sticks to see which will
suit him.

“■Wooy, Willum Smith, thee canst plaay wi’
he arra daay,” says his companion to the black-
smith’s apprentice, a stout young fellow of nine-
teen or twenty. Willum’s sweetheart is in the
“veast” somewhere, and has strictly enjoined
him not to get his head broke at back-swording,
on pain of her highest displeasure ; but as she is
not to be seen (the women pretend not to like
to see the back-sword play, and keep away from
the stage), and as his hat is decidedly getting
old, he chucks it on to the stage, and follows
himself, hoping that he will only have to break
other people’s heads, or that after all Rachel
won’t really mind.

Then follows the greasy cap lined with fur of
a half-gypsy, poaching, loafing fellow, who trav-
els the Vale not for much good, I fancy :

“Full twenty times was Peter feareU
For once that Peter was respected,"

in fact. And then three or four other hats, in-

cluding the glossy castor of Joe Willis, the self-
elected and would-be champion of tlie neighbor-
hood, a well-to-do young butcher of twenty-eight
or thereabouts, and a great strapping fellow, with
bis full allowance of bluster. This is a capital
show of gamesters, considering the amount of
the prize ; so, wliile they are ])icking their sticks
and drawing their lots, I think I must tell you,
as shortly as I can, how the noble old game of
back-sword is played ; for it is sadly gone out
of late, even in the Vale, and may be you have
never seen it.

The weapon is a good stout ash-stick with a
large basket-handle, heavier and somewliat short-
er than a common single-stick. The players are
called “old gamesters” — why, I can’t tell you
— and their object is simply to break one an-
other’s heads : for the moment that blood runs
an inch anywhere above the eyebrow, the old
gamester to whom it belongs is beaten, and has
to stop. A very slight blow with the sticks will
fetch blood, so that it is by no means a punish-
ing pastime, if the men don’t play on purpose,
and savagely, at the body and arms of their ad-
versaries. The old gamester going into action
only takes off his hat and coat, and arms him-
self with a stick : he then loops the fingers of his
left hand in a handkerchief or strap which he
fastens round his left leg, measuring the length,
so that when he draws it tight with his left el-
bow in the air, that elbow shall just reach as
high as his crown. Thus you see, so long as he
chooses to keep his left elbow up, regardless of
cuts, he has a perfect guard for the left side of
his. head. Then he advances his right hand
above and in front of his head, holding his stick
across so that its point projects an inch or two
over his left elbow, and thus his whole head is
completely guarded, and he faces his man arm-
ed in like manner, and they stand some three
feet apart, often nearer, and feint, and strike,
and return at one another’s heads, until one
cries “hold,” or blood flows: in the first case
they are allowed a minute’s time, and go on
again ; in the latter, another pair of gamesters
are called on. If good men are playing, the
quickness of the return is marvellous ; you hear
the rattle like that a boy makes drawing his
stick along palings, only heavier, and the close-
ness of the men in action to one another gives
it a strange interest, and makes a spell at back-
swording a very noble sight.

They are all suited now with sticks, and Joe
Willis and the gypsy man have drawn the first lot.
So the rest lean against the rails of the stage, and
Joe and the dark man meet in the middle, the
boards having been strewed with sawdust ; Joe’s
white shirt and spotless drab breeches and boots
contrasting with the gypsy’s coarse blue shirt and
dirty green velveteen breeches and leather gai-
ters. Joe is evidently turning up his nose at the
other, and half insulted at having to break his
head.

The gypsy is a tongh, active fellow, but not very
skillful with his weapon, so that Joe’s weight and
strength tell in a. minute; he is too heavy meta.'

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOR DATS.

WILLCM’s DiSi’BAT AX UAOJi-SWUBUlJSCi.

for him : whack, whack, whack, come his blowsj
breaking down the gypsy’s guard, and threaten-
ing to reach his head every moment. There it
is at last — “Blood, blood!” shout the specta-
tors, as a thin stream oozes out slowly from the
roots of his hair, and the umpire calls to them to
stop. The gypsy scowls at Joe under his brows
in no pleasant manner, while Master Joe swag-
gers about, and makes attitudes, and thinks him-
self, and shows that he thinks himself, the great-
est man in the field.

Then follow several stout sets-to between the
other candidates for the new hat, and at last
come the shepherd and Willum Smith. This
is the crack set-to of the day. They are both
in famous wind, and there is no crying “ hold

the shepherd is an old hand, and up to all the
dodges; he tries them one after another, and
very nearly gets at Willum’s head by coming
in near, and playing over his guard at the half-
stick, but somehow Willum blunders through,
catching the stick on his shoulders, neck, sides,
every now and then, anywhere but on his
head, and his returns are heavy and straight,
and he is the youngest gamester and a favorite
in the parish, and his gallant stand brings down
shouts and cheers, and the knowing ones think
he’ll win if he keeps steady, and Tom on the
groom’s shoulder holds his hands together, and
can hardly breathe for excitement.

Alas for Willum ! his sweetheart getting tired
of female companionship has been hunting the

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

booths to see where he can haTC got to, and now
catches sight of him on the stage in full combat.
She fliislies and turns pale ; her old aunt catches
hold of her, saying, “Bless ’ee, child, doan’t ee
go a’nigst it;” but she breaks away and runs
towards the stage calling his name. Willum
keeps up his guard stoutly, but glances for a
moment towards the voice. No guard will do
it, Willum, without the eye. The s^iepherd
steps round and strikes, and the point of his
stick just grazes Willum’s forehead, fetching off
the skin, and the blood flows, and the umpire
cries “Hold,” and poor Willum’s chance is up
for the day. But he takes it very well, and
puts on his old hat and coat, and goes down to
be scolded by his sweetheart, and led away out
of mischief. Tom hears him say coaxingly as
he walks off —

“Now doan’t ee, Rachel! I wouldn’t ha’
done it, only I wanted summut to buy ee a fair-
ing wi’, and I be as vlush o’ money as a twod o’
veathers.”

“Thee mind what I tells ee,” rejoins Rachel
saucily, “ and doan’t ee kep blethering about
fairings.” Tom resolves in his heart to give
Willum the remainder of his two shillings after
the back-sword ing.

Joe Willis has all the luck to-day. His next
bout ends in an easy victory, while the shepherd
has a tough job to break his second head ; and
when Joe and the shepherd meet, and the whole
circle expect and hope to see him get a broken
crown, the shepherd slips in the first round, and
falls against the rails, hurting himself so that
the old farmer will not let him go on, much as
he wishes to try ; and that impostor Joe (for he
is certainly not the best man) stmts and swag-
gers about the stage the conquering gamester,
though he hasn’t had five minutes’ really trying
play.

Joe takes the new hat in his hand, and puts
the money into it, and then, as if a thought
strikes him, and he doesn’t think his victory
quite acknowledged down below, walks to each
face of the stage, and looks down, shaking the
money, and chaffing, as how he’ll stake hat and
money and another half-sovereign “ agin any
gamester as hasn’t played already.” Cunning
Joe ! he thus gets rid of Willum and the shep-
herd, who is quite fresh again.

No one seems to like the offer, and the um-
pire is just coming down, when a queer old hat,
something like a Doctor of Divinity’s shovel, is
chucked on to the stage, and an elderly quiet
man steps out, who has been watching the play,
saying he should like to cross a stick “wi’ the
prodigalish young chap.”

The crowd cheer and begin to chaff Joe, who
turns up his nose and swaggers across to the
sticks. “ Imp’ dent old wosbird I” says he, “ I'll
break the bald head on un to the truth.”

The old boy is very bald certainly, and the
blood will show fast enough if you can touch
him, Joe.

He takes off his long-flapped coat, and stands
up in a long flapped waistcoat, which Sir Roger

de Coverley might have worn when it was new,
picks out a stick, and is ready for Master Joe,
who loses no time, but begins his old game,
whack, whack, whack, trying to break down the
old man’s guard by sheer strength. But it
won’t do — he catches every blow close by the
basket ; and though he is rather stiff in his re-
turns, after a minute walks Joe about tlie stage,
and is cleaidy a staunch old gamester. Joe
now comes in, and making the most of his
height, tries to get over the old man’s guard at
half-stick, by which he takes a smart blow in the
ribs and another on the elbow, and nothing
more. And now he loses wind and begins to
puff, and the crowd laugh : “ Cry ‘ liold,’ Joe
— -thee’st met thy match !” Instead of taking
good advice and getting his wind, Joe loses his
temper, and strikes at the old man’s body.

“ Blood, blood I” shout the crowd, “ Joe’s
head’s broke ! ”

Who’d have thought it? How did it come?
That body-blow left Joe’s head unguarded for a
moment, and with one turn of the wrist the old
gentleman has pieked a neat little bit of skin
off the middle of his forehead ; and though he
won’t believe it, and hammers on for three more
blows despite of the shouts, is then convinced by
the blood trickling into his eyes. Poor Joe is
sadly crestfallen, and fumbles in his pocket for
the other half-sovereign, but the old gamester
won’t have it. “Keep thy money, man, and
gi’s thy hand,” says he, and they shake hands;
but the old gamester gives the new hat to the
shepherd, and, soon after, the half-sovereign to
Willum, who thereout decorates his sweetheart
with ribbons to his heart’s content.

“ Who can a be ?” “ Wur do a cum from ?”

ask the crowd. And it soon flies about that the
old west-country champion, who played a tie with
Shaw the life-guardsman at “ Vizes ” twenty
years before, has broken Joe Willis’s crown for
him.

How my country fair is spinning out ! I see
I must skip the wrestling, and the boysjumping
in sacks, and rolling wheelbarrows blindfolded ;
and the donkey-race, and the fight which arose
thereout,marring the otherwise peaceful “veast,”
and the frightened scurrying away of the fe-
male feast-goers, and descent of Squire Brown,
summoned by the wife of one of the combatants
to stop it ; which he wouldn’t start to do till he
had got on his top-boots. Tom is carried away
by old Benjy, dog-tired and surfeited with pleas-
ure, as the evening comes on and the dancing
begins in the booths ; and though Willum and
Rachel in her new ribbons and many another good
lad and lass don’t come away just yet, but have
a good step out, and enjoy it, and get no harm
thereby, yet Ave, being sober folk, will just stroll
away up through the church-yard, and by the
old yew-tree ; and get a quiet dish of tea and a
parle with our gossips, as the steady ones of our
village do, and so to bed.

That’s the fair true sketch, as far as it goes,
of one of the larger village feasts in the Vale
of Berks, when I was a little boy. They are

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

much altered for the worse, I am told. I haven’t
been at one these twenty years, but I have been
at the statute fairs in some west-country towns,
where servants are hired, and greater abomina-
tions can not be found. What village feasts
have come to, I fear, in many cases, may be
read in the pages of Yeast (though I never saw
one so bad — thank God) !

Do you want to know why ? It is because,
as I said before, gentlefolk and farmers have left
off joining or taking an interest in them. They
don’t either subscribe to the prizes, or go down
and enjoy the fun.

Is this a good or a bad sign ? I hardly know.
Bad, sure enough, if it only arises from the fur-
tlier separation of classes consequent on twenty
years of buying cheap and selling dear, and its
accompanying over-work ; or because our sons
and daughters have their hearts in London
Club-life, or so-called Society, instead of in the
old English home-duties ; because farmers’ sons
are aping fine gentlemen, and farmers’ daugh-
ters caring more to make bad foreign music than
good English cheeses. Good, perhaps, if it be
that the time for the old “ veast ” has gone by,
that it is no longer the healthy sound expres-
sion of English country holiday-making; that,
in fact, we as a nation have got beyond it, and
are in a transition state, feeling for and soon
likely to find some better substitute.

Only I have just got this to say before I quit
the text. Don’t let reformers of any sort think
that they are going really to lay hold of the
working boys and young men of England by
any educational grapnel whatever, which hasn’t
some bona fide equivalent for the games of the
old country “ veast ” in it ; something to put in
the place of the back-swording and wrestling
and racing ; something to try the muscles of
men’s bodies, and the endurance of their hearts,
and to make them rejoice in their strength. In
all the new-fangled comprehensive plans which
I see, this is all left out : and the consequence
is, that your great Mechanics’ Institutes end in
intellectual priggism, and your Christian Young
Men’s Societies in religious Pharisaism.

Well, well, we must bide our time. Life is’nt
all beer and skittles — but beer and skittles, or
something better of the same sort, must form a
good part of every Englishman’s education. If I
could only drive this into the heads of you rising
Parliamentary Lords, and young swells who
‘ ‘ have your ways made for you,” as the s.nying is
— you, who frequent palaver houses and West-
end clubs, waiting always ready to strap your-
selves on to the back of poor dear old John, as
soon as the present used-up lot (your fathers and
uncles), who sit there on the great Parliamentary
majorities’ pack-saddle, and make believe they’re
guiding him with their red-tape bridle, tumble,
or have to be lifted off.

I don’t think much of you yet — I wish I could ;
though you do go talking and lecturing up and
down the country to crowded audiences, and are
busy with all sorts of philanthropic intellectual-
ism, and circulating libraries and museums, and

Heaven only knows what besides , and try to
make us think, through newspaper reports, that
you are, even as we, of the working classes.
But, bless your hearts, we “ain’t so green,”
though lots of us of all sorts toady you enough
certainly, and try to make you think so.

I’ll tell you what to do now : instead of all
this trumpeting and fuss, which is only the old
Parliamentary-majority dodge over again— just
you go each of you (you've plenty of time for it, if
you’ll only give up t’other line) and quietly make
three or four friends, real friends, among us.
You’ll find a little trouble in getting at the right
sort because such birds don’t come lightly to your
lure — but found they may be. Take, say, two
out of the professions, lawyer, parson, doctor —
which you will ; one out of trade, and three or
four out of the working classes, tailors, engi-
neers, carpenters, engravers — there’s plenty of
choice. Let them be men of your own ages,
mind, and ask them to your homes ; introduce
them to your wives and sisters, and get intro-
duced to theirs: give them good dinners, and
talk to them about what is really at the bottom
of your hearts, and box, and run, and row with
them, when you have a chance. Do all this
honestly as man to man, and by the time you
come to ride old John, you’ll be able to do
something more than sit on his back, and may
feel his mouth with some stronger bridle than a
red-tape one.

Ah, if you only would ! But you have got
too far out of the right rut, I fear. Too much
over-civilization, and the deceitfulness of riches.
It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of
a needle. More’s the pity. I never came across
but two of you who could value a man wholly
and solely for what was in him ; who thought
themselves verily and indeed of the same flesh
and blood as John Jones the attorney’s clerk,
and Bill Smith the costermonger, and could act
as if they thought so.

CHAPTER III.

STINDKY WARS AND ALLIANCES.

Poor old Benjy ! the “ rheumatiz ” has much
to answer for all through English country-sides,
but it never played a scurvier trick than in lay-
ing thee by the heels, when thou wast yet in a
green old age. The enemy, which had long
been carrying on a sort of border warfare, and
trying his strength against Benjy’s on the bat-
tle-field of his hands and legs, now, mustering
all his forces, began laying siege to the citadel,
and overrunning the whole country. Benjy was
seized in the hack and loins ; and though ho
made strong and brave fight, it was soon clear
enough that all which could be beaten of poor
old Benjy would have to give in before long.

It was as much as he could do now, with the
help of his big stick and frequent stops, to hob-
ble down to the canal with Master Tom, and bait
his hook for him, and sit and watch his angling,

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

telling him quaint old country stories ; and when
Tom had no sport, and detecting a rat some hun-
dred yards or so off along the bank, would rush
off with Toby the turnspit terrier, his other
faithful companion, in bootless pursuit, lie might
have tumbled in and been drowned twenty
times over before Benjy could have got near
him.

Cheery and unmindful of himself as Benjy
was, this loss of locomotive power bothered him
greatly. He had got a new object in his old
age, and was just beginning to think himself
useful again in the world. He feared much,
too, lest Master Tom should fall back again
into the hands of Charity and the women. So
he tried every thing he could think of to get
set up. He even went an expedition to the
dwelling of one of those queer mortals, who —
say what we will, and reason how w’e will — do
cure simple people of diseases of one kind or
another without the aid of physic ; and so get
to themselves the reputation of using charms,
and inspire for themselves and their dwellings
great respect, not to say fear, amongst a simple
folk such as the dwellers in the Vale of White
Horse. Where this power, or whatever else it
may be, descends upon the shoulders of a man
whose ways are not straight, he becomes a nui-
sance to the neighborhood ; a receiver of stolen
goods, giver of love-potions, and deceiver of
silly women; the avowed enemy of law and
order, of justices of the peace, head-borougiis,
and game-keepers — such a man in fact as was
recently caught tripping, and deservedly dealt
with by the Leeds, justices, for seducing a girl
who had come to him to get back a faithless
lover, and has been convicted of bigamy since
then. Sometimes, however, they are of quite a
different stamp, men who pretend to nothing,
and are with difficulty persuaded to exercise
their occult arts in the simplest cases.

Of this latter sort was old Farmer Ives, as he
w'as called, the “ wise man ” to whom Benjy re-
sorted (takingTom with him as usual), in the ear-
ly spring of the year next after the feast described
in the last chapter. Why he was called “farm-
er” I can not say, unless it be that he was the own-
er of a cow, a pig or two, and some poultry, which
he maintained on about an acre of land inclosed
from the middle of a wild common, on which
probably his father had squatted before lords of
manors looked as keenly after their rights as
they do now. Here he had lived no one knew
how long, a solitary man. It was often rumor-
ed that he was to be turned out and his cottage
pulled down, but somehow it never came to
pass; and his pigs and cow went grazing on the
common, and his geese hissed at the passing
children and at the heels of the horse of my
lord’s steward, who often rode by with a covet-
ous eye on the inclosure, still unmolested. His
dwelling was some miles from our village ; so
Benjy, who was half ashamed of his errand, and
wholly unable to walk there, had to exercise
much ingenuity to get the means of transporting
himself and Tom thither without exciting sus-

picion. However, one fine May morning he
managed to borrow the old blind pony of our
friend the publican, and Tom persuaded Mad-
am Brown to give liim a holiday to spend with
old Benjy, and to lend them the Squire’s light
cart, stored with bread and cold meat and a bot-
tle of ale. And so the two in high glee started
behind old Dobbin, and jogged along the deep-
rutted plashy roads, which had not been mend-
ed after their winter’s wear, towards the dwell-
ing of the wizard. About noon they passed the
gate which opened on to the large common, and
old Dobbin toiled slowly up the hill, while Benjy
pointed out a little deep dingle on the left, out
of which welled a tiny stream. As they crept
up the hill the tops of a few birch-trees came in
sight, and blue smoke curling up through their
delicate light boughs ; and then the little white
thatched home and inclosed ground of Farmer
Ives, lying cradled in the dingle, with the gay
gorse common rising behind and on both sides ;
while in front, after traversing a gentle slope,
the eye might travel for miles and miles over
the rich vale. They now left the main road
and struck into a green track over the common,
marked lightly with wheel and horse-shoe, which
led down into the dingle and stopped at the
rough gate of Farmer Ives. Here they found
the farmer, an iron-gray old man, with a bushy
eyebrow and strong aquiline nose, busied in one
of his vocations. He was a horse and cow
doctor, and was tending a sick beast which had
been sent up to be cured. Benjy hailed him as
an old friend, and he returned the greeting cor-
dially enough, looking, however, hard for a mo-
ment both at Benjy and Tom, to see whether
there was more in their visit than appeared at
first sight. It was a work of some difficulty
and danger for Benjy to reach the ground, which,
however, he managed to do without mishap ;
and then he devoted himself to unharnessing
Dobbin, and turning him out for a graze (“a
run ” one could not say of that virtuous steed)
on the common. This done, he extricated the
cold provisions from the cart, and they entered
the farmer’s wicket ; and he, shutting up the
knife with w'hich he was taking maggots out of
the cow’s back and sides, accompanied them to-
wards the cottage. A big old lurcher got up
slowly from the door-stone, stretching first one
hind leg and then the other, and taking Tom’s
caresses and the presence of Toby, who kept
however at a respectful distance, with equal in-
difference.

‘.‘Us be cum to pay ee a visit. I’ve a been
long minded to do’t for old sake’s sake, only I
vinds I dwont get about now as I’d used to’t.
I be so plaguy bad wi’ th’ rumatiz in my
back.” Benjy paused, in hopes of drawing the
farmer at once on the subject of his ailments
without further direct application.

“Ah, I see as you bean’t quite so lissom as
you was,” replied the farmer with a grim smile,
as he lifted the latch of his door; “we bean’t
so young as we was, nother on us, wuss luck.”

The farmer’s cottage was very like those of

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

the better class of peasantry in general. A snug
chimney-corner with two seats and a small car-
pet on the hearth, an old flint gun and a pair
of spurs over the fireplace, a dresser with shelves
on which some bright pewter plates and crock-
ery-ware were arranged, an old walnut table, a
few chairs and settles, some framed samplers, *
and an old print or two, and a bookcase with |
some dozen volumes on the walls, a rack with
flitches of bacon, and other stores fastened to ;
the ceiling, and you have the best part of the !
furniture. No sign of occult art is to be seen,
unless the bundles of dried herbs hanging to j
the rack and in the ingle, and the row of label-
led vials on one of the shelves, betoken it.

Tom played about with some kittens who
occupied the hearth, and with a goat who walk-
ed demurely in at the open door, while their
host and Benjy spread the table for dinner —
and was soon engaged in conflict with the cold |
meat, to which he did much honor. The two !
old men’s talk was of old comrades and their
deeds, mute inglorious Miltons of the Vale, and
of the doings thirty years back — which didn’t
interest him much, except when they spoke of
the making of the canal, and then indeed he be-
gan to listen with all his ears^ and learned to
his no small wonder that his dear and wonder-
ful canal had not been there always — was not
in fact as old as Benjy or Farmer Ives, which
caused a strange commotion in his small brain.

After dinner Benjy called attention to a wart
which Tom had on the knuckles of his hand,
and which the family doctor had been trying
his skill on without success, and begged the
farmer to charm it away. Farmer Ives looked
at it, muttered something or another over it,
and cut some notches in a short stick, wdiich he
handed to Benjy, giving him instructions for
cutting it down on certain days, and cautioning
Tom not to meddle with the wart for a fort-
night. And then they strolled out and sat on
a bench in the sun wdth their pipes, and the pigs j
came up and grunted sociably and let Tom |
scratch them ; and the farmer, seeing how he |
liked animals, stood up and held his arms in the
air and gave a call, which brought a flock of pig-
eons wheeling and dashing through the birch-
trees. They settled down in clusters on the
farmer’s arms and shoulders, making love to him j
and scrambling over one another’s backs to get to
his face; and then he threw them all off, and
they fluttered about close by, and lighted on !
him again and again when he held up his arms. |
All the creatures about the place were clean and !
fearless, quite unlike their relations elsewhere ; !
and Tom begged to be taught how to make all
the pigs and cows and poultry in our village |
tame, at which the farmer only gave one of his
grim chuckles.

It wasn’t till they were just ready to go, and ,
old Dobbin was harnessed, that Benjy broached
the subject of his rheumatism again, detailing
his symptoms one by one. Poor old boy ! He I
hoped the farmer could charm it away as easily j
as he could Tom’s wart, and was ready with

equal faith to put another notched stick into
his other pocket, for the cure of his own ail-
ments. The physician shook his head, but nev-
ertheless produced a bottle and handed it to
Benjy with instructions for use. “Not as t'll
do ee much good — leastways I be afeared not,”
shading his eyes with his hand and looking up
at them in the cart ; “there’s only one thing as
I knows on, as’ll cure old folks like you and I o’
th’ rhumatis.”

“Wot be that, then, farmer?” inquired
Benjy.

“Church-yard mould,” said the old iron-gray
man with another chuckle. And so they said
their good-byes and went their ways home.
Tom’s wart was gone in a fortnight, but not so
Benjy’s rheumatism, which laid him by the
heels more and more. And though Tom still
spent many an hour with him, as he sat on a
bench in the sunshine, or by the chimney corner
when it was cold, he soon had to seek elsewhere
for his regular companions.

Tom had been accustomed often to accompa-
ny his mother in her visits to the cottages, and
had thereby made acquaintance with many of
the village boys of his own age. There was
Job Rudkin, son of widow Rudkin, the most
bustling woman in the parish. How she could
ever have had such a stolid boy as Job for a
child, must always remain a mystery. The
first time Tom went to their cottage with his
mother. Job was not indoors, but he entered soon
after, and stood with both hands in his pockets
staring at Tom. Widow Rudkin, who would
have had to cross Madam to get at young Hope-
ful— a breach of good manners of which she was
wholly incapable — began a series of pantomime
signs, which only puzzled him, and at last, un-
able to contain herself longer, burst out with,
“Job! Job! where’s thy cap?”

“ What ! beant ee on ma’ head, mother?” re-
plied Job, slowly extricating one hand from a
pocket and feeling for the article in question;
which her found on his head sure enough, and
left there, to his mother’s horror and Tom’s
great delight.

Then there was poor Jacob Dodson, the half-
witted boy, ■who ambled about cheerfully, un-
dertaking messages and little helpful odds and
ends for every one, which, however, poor Jacob
managed always hopelessly to embrangle. Ev-
ery‘thing came to pieces in his hands, and noth-
ing would stop in his head. They nicknamed
him Jacob Doodle-calf.

But above all there was Harry Winburn, the
quickest and best boy in the parish. He might
be a year older than Tom, but was very little
bigger, and he was the Crichton of our village
boys. He could wrestle and climb and run bet-
ter than all the rest, and learned all that the
schoolmaster could teach him faster than that
worthy at all liked. He was a boy to be proud
of, with his curly brown hair, keen gray eye,
straight active figure, and little ears and hands
and feet — “as fine as a lord’s,” as Charity re-
marked to Tom one day, talking as usual great

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

nonsense. Lords’ hands and ears and feet are
just as ugly as other folks’ when they are chil-
dren, as any one may convince themselves if
they like to look. Tight boots and gloves, and
doing nothing with them, I allow make a differ-
ence by the time they are twenty.

Now that Benjy was laid on the shelf, and
his young brothers were still under petticoat
government, Tom, in search of companions, be-
gan to cultivate the village boys generally more
and more. Squire Brown, be it said, was a true
blue Tory to the backbone, and believed honest-
ly that the powers which be were ordained of
God, and that loyalty and steadfast obedience
were men’s first duties. Whether it were in
consequence or in spite of his political creed,
I do not mean to give an opinion, though I
have one ; but certain it is, that he held there-
with divers social principles not generally sup-
posed to be true blue in color. Foremost of
these, and the one which the Squire loved to
propound above all others, was the belief that
a man is to be valued wholly and solely for
that which he is in himself, for that which stands
up in the foirr fleshly walls of him, apart from
clothes, rank, fortune, and all externals whatso-
ever. Which belief I take to be a wholesome
corrective of all political opinions, and, if held
sincerely, to make all opinions equally harm-
less, whether they be blue, red, or green. As a
necessary corollary to this belief. Squire Brown
held further that it didn’t matter a straw wheth-
er his son associated with lords’ sons or plough-
men’s sons, provided they were brave and hon-
est. He himself had played foot-ball and gone
birds’-nesting with the farmers whom he met at
vestry and the laborers who tilled their fields,
and so had his father and grandfather with their
progenitors. So he encouraged Tom in his in-
timacy with the boys of the village, and forward-
ed it by all means in his power, and gave them
the run of a close for a playground, and provid-
ed bats and balls and a foot-ball for their sports.

Our village was blessed, amongst other things,
with a well-endowed school. The building
stood by itself, apart from the master’s house, on
an angle of ground where three roads met ; .an
old gray stone building, with a steep roof and
raullioned windows. On one of the opposite
angles stood Squire Brown’s stables and kennel,
with their backs to the road, over which towered
a great elm-tree ; on the third stood the village
carpenter and wheelwright’s large open shop,
and his house and the schoolmaster’s, with long
low eaves under which the swallows built by
scores.

The moment Tom’s lessons were over, he
would now get him down to this corner by the
stables, and watch till the boys came out of
school. He prevailed on the groom to cut
notches for him in the bark of the elm, so that
he could climb into the lower branches, and
there he would sit watching the school-door,
and speculating on the possibility of turning
the elm into a dwelling-place for himself and
friends after the manner of the Swiss Family

Robinson. But the school hours were long and
Tom’s patience short, so that he soon began to
descend into the street, and go and peep in at
the school-door and the wheelwright’s shop, and
look out for something to while away the time.
Now the wheelwright was a choleric man, and
one fine afternoon, returning from a short ab-
sence, found Tom occupied with one of his pet
adzes, the edge of which was fast vanishing un-
der our hero’s care. A speedy flight saved Tom
from all but one sound cutF on the ears, but he
resented this unjustifiable interruption of his
first essays at carpentering, and still more the
further proceedings of the wheelwright, who
cut a switch and hung it over the door of his
workshop, threatening to use it upon Tom if he
came within twenty yards of his gate. So Tom,
to retaliate, commenced a war upon the swal-
lows who dwelt under the wheelwright’s eaves,
whom he harassed with sticks and stones, and
being fleeter of foot than his enemy, escaped all
punishment, and kept him in perpetual anger.
Moreover his presence about the school-door be-
gan to incense the master, as the boys in that
neighborhood neglected their lessons in conse-
quence : and more than once he issued into the
porch, rod in hand, just as Tom beat a hasty re-
treat. And he and the wheelwright, laying
their heads together, resolved to acquaint the
Squire with Tom’s afternoon occupations; but,
in order to do it with etfect, determined to take
him captive and lead him away to judgment
fresh from his evil doings. This they would
have found some difficulty in doing, had Tom
continued the war single-handed, or rather sin-
gle-footed, for he would have taken to the deep-
est part of Pebbly Brook to escape them ; but,
like other active powers, he was ruined by his
alliances. Poor Jacob Doodle-calf could not go
to the school with the other boys, and one fine
afternoon, about three o’clock (the school broke
up at four), Tom found him ambling about the
street, and pressed him into a visit to the school-
porch. Jacob, always ready to do what he was
asked, consented, and the two stole down to the
school together. Tom first reconnoitred the
wheelwright’s shop, and seeing no signs of activi-
ty, thought all safe in that quarter, and ordered
at once an advance of all his troops upon the
school-porch. The door of the school was ajar,
and the boys seated on the nearest bench at
once recognized and opened a correspondence
with the invaders. Tom, waxing bold, kept put-
ting his head into the school and making faces
at the master when his back was turned. Poor
Jacob, not in the least comprehending the situa-
tion, and in high glee at finding himself so near
the school, which he had never been allowed to
enter, suddenly, in a fit of enthusiasm, pushed
by Tom, and ambling throe steps into the school,
stood there, looking round him and nodding with
a self- approving smile. The master, wlio was
stooping over a boy’s slate, with his back to the
door, became aware of something unusual, and
turned quickly round. Tom rushed at Jacob,
and began dragging him back by his smock-

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

frock, and the master made at them, scattering
forms and boys in his career. Even now they |
might have escaped, but that in the porch, bar-
ring retreat, appeared the crafty wheelwright,
who had been watching all their proceedings.
So they were seized, the school dismissed, and
Tom and Jacob led away to Squire Brown as
lawful prize, the boys following to the gate in
groups, and speculating on the result.

The Squire was very angry at first, but the !
interview, by Tom’s pleading, ended in a com- j
promise. Tom was not to go near the school |
till three o’clock, and only then if he had done ,
his own lessons well, in which case he was to be
the bearer of a note to the master from Squire
Brown, and the master agreed in such case to
release ten or twelve of the best boys an hour be-
fore the time of breaking up, to go off and play
in the close. The wheelwright’s adzes and
swallows were to be forever respected ; and
that hero and the master withdrew to the serv-
ants’ hall, to drink the Squire’s health, well sat-
isfied with their day’s work.

The second act of Tom’s life may now be said
to have begun. The war of independence had
been over for some time ; none of the women
now, not even his mother’s maid, dared offer to
help him in dressing or washing. Between our-
selves, he had often at first to run to Benjy in
an unfinished state of toilette ; Charity and the
rest of them seemed to take a delight in putting
impossible buttons and ties in the middle of his
back ; but he would have gone without nether
integuments altogether, sooner than have had
recourse to female valeting. He had a room to
himself, and his father gave him sixpence a week
pocket-money. All this he had aehieved by
Benjy’s advice and assistance. But now he had
conquered another step in life, the step which
all real boys so long to make ; he had got
amongst his equals in age and strength, and
could measure himself with other boys ; he lived
with those whose pursuits and wishes and waj's
were the same in kind as his own.

The little governess who had lately been in-
st.alled in the house found her work grow won-
drously easy, for Tom slaved at his lessons in
order to make sure of his note to the school- j
master. So there were very few days in the
week in which Tom and the village boys were *
not playing in their close by three o’clock. |
Prisoner’s base, rounders, high-cock-a-lorum,
cricket, football, he was soon initiated into the
delights of them all ; and though most of the j
boys were older than himself, he managed to
hold his own very well. He was naturally
active and strong, and quick of eye and hand,
and had the advantage of light shoes and well-
fitting dress, so that in a short time he could run
and jump and climb with any of them.

They generally finished their regular games
half an hour or so before tea-time, and then be-
gan trials of skill and strength in many ways.
Some of them would catch the Shetland pony
who was turned out in the field, and get two or
three together on his back, and the little rogue.

enjoying the fun, would gallop off fur fifty yards
and then turn round, or stop short and shoot
them on to the turf, and then graze quietly on
till he felt another load ; others played at peg-
top or marbles, while a few of the bigger ones
stood up for a bout at wrestling. Tom at first
only looked on at this pastime, but it had pecu-
liar attractions for him, and he could not long
keep out of it. Elbow and collar wrestling as
practised in the western counties was, next to
back-swording, the way to fame for the youth
of the Vale ; and all the boys knew the rules of
it, and were more or less expert. But Job Rud-
kin and Harry Winburn were the stars, the
former stiff and sturdy, with legs like small
towers, the latter pliant as india-rubber and
quick as lightning. Day after day they stood
foot to foot, and offered first one hand and then
the other, and grappled and closed and swayed
and strained, till a well-aimed crook of the heel
or thruoC of the loin took effect, and a fair back-
fall ended the matter. And Tom watched with
all his eyes, and first challenged one of the less
scientific, and threw him ; and so one by one
wrestled his way up to the leaders.

Then indeed for months he had a poor time
of it ; it was not long indeed before he could
manage to keep his legs against Job, for that
hero was slow of offense, and gained his victo-
ries chiefly by allowing others to throw them-
selves against his immovable legs and loins.
But Harry Winburn was undeniably his mas-
ter; from the first clutch of hands when they
stood up, down to the last trip which sent him
on to his back on the turf, he felt that Harry
knew more and could do more than he. Lucki-
ly, Harry’s bright unconsciousness, and Tom’s
natural good temper, kept them from ever quar-
relling ; and so Tom worked on and on, and
trod more and more nearly on Harry’s heels,
and at last mastered all the dodges and falls
except one. This one was Harry’s own par-
ticular invention and pet ; he scarcely ever
used it except when hard pressed, but then out
it came, and, as sure as it did, over went poor
Tom. He thought about that fall at his meals,
in his walks, when he lay awake in hed, in his
dreams — but all to no purpose ; until Harry one
day in his open way suggested to him how he
thought it should be met, and in a week from
that time the boys were equal, save only the
slight difference of strength in Harry’s favor,
which some extra ten months of age gave.
Tom had often afterwards reason to be thank-
ful for that early drilling, and above all for hav-
ing mastered Harry Winburn’s fall.

Besides their home games, on Saturdays tlie
boys would wander all over the neighborhood ;
sometimes to the downs or up to the camp,
where they cut their initials out in the springy
turf, and watched the hawks soaring, and the
“peert” bird, as Harry Winburn called the
gray plover, gorgeous in his wedding feathers ;
and so home, racing down the Manger with
many a roll among the thistles, or through Uf-
fington-wood to watch the fox-cubs ]>laying in

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

the green rides ; sometimes to Rosy Brook to
cut long whispering reeds which grew there, to
make pan-pipes of ; sometimes to Moor Mills,
where was a piece of old forest land, with short
browsed turf and tufted brambly thickets
stretching under the oaks, amongst which ru-
mor declared that a raven, last of his race, still
lingered ; or to the sand-hills, in vain quest of
rabbits ; and birds’-nesting, in the season, any-
where and everywhere.

The few neighbors of the Squire’s own rank
every now and then would shrug their shoul-

entering their heads, as it doesn’t till it’s put
there by Jack Nastys or fine ladies’ maids.

I don’t mean to say it would be the case in
all villages, but it certainly was so in this one ;
the village boys were full as manly and honest,
and certainly purer than those in a higher rank ;
and Tom got more harm from his equals in his
first fortnight at a private school, where he went
when he was nine years old, than he had from
his village friends from the day he left Charity’s
apron-strings.

Great was the grief amongst the village

TOM PLAiMATES COMING UOME.

dors as they drove or rode by a party of boys
with Tom in tlie middle, carrying along bul-
rushes or whispering reeds, or great bundles of
cowslip and meadow-sweet, or young starlings
or magpies, or other spoil of wood, brook, or
meadow : and Lawyer Red-tape might mutter
to Squire Straightback at the Board, that no
good would come of the young Browns, if they
were let run wild with all the dirty village boys,
whom the best farmers’ sons even would not
])lay with. And the Squire might reply with
a shake of his head, that his sons only mixed
with their equals, and never went into the vil-
lage without the governess or a footman. But,
luckily, Squire Brown was full as stiff-backed
as his neighbors, and so went on his own way;
and Tom and his younger brothers, as they
grew up, went on playing with the village boys,
without the idea of equality or inequality (ex-
cept in wrestling, running, and climbing; ever

schoolboys when Tom drove off with the Squire,
one August morning, to meet the coach on his
w'ay to school. Each of them had given him
some little present of the best that he had, and
his small private box was full of peg-tops, white
marbles (called “ alley-taws ” in the Vale),
screws, birds’-eggs, whipcord, jews’-harps, and
other miscellaneous boys’ wealth. Poor Jacob
Doodle-calf, in floods of tears, had pressed upon
him, in spluttering earnestness his lame pet
hedgehog (he had always some poor broken-
down beast or bird by him) ; but this Tom had
been obliged to refuse by the Squire’s order.
He had given them all a great tea under the
big elm in their playground, fur which Madam
Brown had supplied the biggest cake ever seen
in our village ; and Tom was really as sorry to
leave them as they to lose him, but Ins sorrow
was not unmixed with the pride and excitement
of making a new ste[> in life.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

And this feeling carried him through his first
parting with his mother better than could have
been expected. Their love was as fair and
whole as human love can be, perfect self-sacri-
fice on the one side, meeting a young and true
heart on the other. It is not within the scope
of my book, however, to speak of family rela-
tions, or I should have much to say on the sub-
ject of English mothers — aye, and of English
fathers, and sisters, and brothers too.

Neither have I room to speak of our private
schools : what I have to say is about public
schools, those much-abused and much-belauded
institutions peculiar to England. So we must
hurry through Master Tom’s year at a private
school as fast as we can.

It was a fair average specimen, kept by a
gentleman, with another gentleman as second
master; but it was little enough of the real
work they did — merely coming into school
when lessons were prepared and all ready to be
heard. The whole discipline of the school out
of lesson hours was in the hands of the two
ushers, one of whom was always with the boys
in their playground, in the school, at meals — in
fact, at all times and everywhere, till they were
fairly in bed at night.

Now the theory of private schools is (or Avas)
constant supervision out of school ; therein dif-
fering fundamentally from that of public schools.

It may be right or wrong ; but if right, this
supervision surely ought to be the especial work
of the head-master, the responsible person.
The object of all schools is not to ram Latin
and Greek into boys, but to make them good
English boys, good future citizens ; and by far
the most important part of that work must be
done, or not done, out of school hours. To
leave it, therefore, in the hands of inferior men,
is just giving up the highest and hardest part
of the work of education. Were I a private
schoolmaster, I should, say, let who will hear
the boys their lessons, but let me live with
them Avhen they are at play and rest.

The two ushers at Tom’s first school were
not gentlemen, and were very poorly educated,
and were only driving their poor trade of usher
to get such living as they could out of it. They
were not bad men, but had little heart for their
work, and, of course, were bent on making it as
easy as possible. One of the methods by Avhich
they endeavored to accomplish this was by en-
couraging tale-bearing, which had become a
frightfully common vice in the school in conse-
quence, and had sapped all the foundations of
school morality. Another was, by favoilng
grossly the biggest boys, who alone could havej
given them much trouble ; whereby those young
gentlemen became most abominable tyrants,
oppressing the little boys in all the small mean
ways which prevail in private schools.

Poor little Tom was made dreadfully unhappy
in his first week, by a catastrophe Avhich hap-
pened to his first letter home. With huge la-
bor he had, on the A’ery evening of his arrival,
managed to fill two sides of a sheet of letter-

paper with the assurances of his love fur dear
mamma, his happiness at school, and his re-
solves to do all she would wish. This missive,
with the help of the boy who sat at the desk
next him, also a new arrival, he managed to
fold successfully : but this done, they Avere sadly
put to it for means of sealing. Envelopes were
then unknown, they had no wax, and dared not
disturb the stillness of the evening school-room
by getting up and going to ask the usher for
some. At length, Tom’s friend, being of an
ingenious turn of mind, suggested sealing Avith
ink, and the letter Avas accordingly stuck down
Avith a blob of ink, and duly handed by Tom,
on his Avay to bed, to the housekeeper to be
posted. It was not till four days afterwards
that the good dame sent for him, and produced
the precious letter and some Avax, saying, “ Oh,
Master Brown, I forgot to tell you before, but
your letter isn’t sealed.” Poor Tom took the
Avax in silence and sealed his letter, with a huge
lump rising in his throat during the process,
and then ran aAvay to a quiet corner of the play-
ground, and burst into an agony of tears. The
idea of his mother waiting day after day for the
letter he had promised her at once, and perhaps
thinking him forgetful of her, Avhen he had done
all in his power to make good his promise, was
as bitter a grief as any Avhich he had to undergo
for many a long year. His wrath then was
proportionately violent Avhen he was aAvare of
tAvo boys, who stopped close by him, and one
of Avhom, a fat gaby of a fellow, pointed at him
and called him “Young mammy-sick !” Where-
upon Tom arose, and gmng vent thus to his
grief and shame and rage, smote his derider on
the nose, and made it bleed — Avhich sent that
young Avorthy howling to the usher, Avho report-
ed Tom for violent and unprovoked assault and
battery. Hitting in tlie face AV'as a felony pun-
ishable with flogging, other hitting only a mis-
demeanor— -a distinction not altogether clear in
principle. Tom, however, escaped the penalty
by pleading “primum tempus;” and having
written a second letter to his mother, inclosing
some forget-me-nots, Avhich he picked on their
first half-holiday walk, felt quite happy again,
and began to enjoy vastly a good deal of his
neAv life.

These half-holiday walks were the great
events of the week. The Avhole fifty boys start-
ed after dinner with one of the ushers for Ha-
zeldown, which Avas distant some mile or so from
the school. Hazeldown measured some three
miles round, and in the neighborhood were seA'-
eral Avoods full of all manner of birds and but-
terflies. Tlie usher walked slowly round the
down Avith such boys as liked to accompany him ;
the rest scattered in all directions, being only
bound to appear again Avhen the usher had com-
pleted his round, and accompany him home.
They Avere forbidden, howeA’er, to go anyAvhere
except on the down and into the woods ; the
village had been especially prohibited, Avhere
huge bulls’-eyes and unctuous toffee might be
procured in exchange for coin of the realm.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

Various were the amusements to which tlie
boys then betook themselves. At the entrance
of the down tliere was a steep hillock, like the
barrows of 'J'om’s own downs. This mound was
the weekly scene of terrific combats, at a game
called by the queer name of “mud-patties.’’
The boys who played divided into sides under
different leaders, and one side occupied the
mound. Then all parties having provided them-
selves with many sods of turf, cut with their
bread-and-cheese knives, the side which remain-
ed at the bottom proceeded to assault the mound,
advancing up on all sides under cover of a heavy
fire of turfs, and then struggling for victory with
the occupants, which was theirs as soon as they
could, even for a moment, clear the summit,
when they in turn became the besieged. It was
a good rough dirty game, and of great use in
counteracting the sneaking tendencies of the
school. Then others of the boys spread over
the downs, looking for the holes of humble-bees
and mice, which they dug up without mercy,
often (I regret to say) killing and skinning the
unlucky mice, and (I do not regret to say) get-
ting well stung by the humble-bees. Others
went after butterflies and birds’-eggs in their
seasons ; and Tom found on Hazeldown, for the
first time, the beautiful little blue butterfly with
golden spots on his wings, which he had never
seen on his own downs, and dug out his first
sand-martin’s nest. This latter achievement re-
sulted in a flogging, for the sand-martins built
in a high bank close to the village, consequent-
ly out of bounds; but one of the bolder spirits
of the school, who never could be happy unless
he was doing something to which risk attached,
easily persuaded Tom to break bounds and visit
the martin’s bank. From whence it being only
a step to the toffee shop, what could be more
simple than to go on there and fill their pock-
ets ? or what more certain than that on their
return, a distribution of treasure having been
made, the usher should shortly detect the for-
bidden smell of bulls’-eyes, and, a search ensu-
ing, discover the state of the breeches’ pockets
of Tom and his ally ?

Tliis ally of Tom’s was indeed a desperate
hero in the sight of the boys, and feared as one
who dealt in magic, or something approaching
thereto. Which reputation came to him in this
wise. The boys went to bed at eight, and of
course consequently lay awake in the dark for
an hour or two, telling ghost stories by turns.
One night when it came to his turn, and he had
dried up their souls by his story, he suddenly
declared that he would make a fiery hand appear
on the door ; and, to the astonishment and ter-
ror of the boys in his room, a hand, or some-
thing like it, in pale light, did then and there
appear. The fame of this exploit having spread
to the other rooms, and being discredited there,
the young necromancer declared that the same
wonder would appear in all the rooms in turn,
which it accordingly did ; and the whole circum-
stances having been privately reported to one of
the ushers as usual, that functionarv, after lis-
3

tening about at the doors of the rooms, by a sud-
j den descent caught the performer in his night-
shirt, with a box of phosphorus in his guilty
I hand. Lucifer-matclies and all the present fa-
' cilities forgetting acquainted with fire were then
unknown ; the very name of phosphorus had
something diabolic in it to the boy-mind ; so
Tom’s ally, at the cost of a sound flogging,
earned what many older folks covet much — the
very decided fear of most of his companions.

He was a remarkable boy, and by no means a
bad one. Tom stuck to him till he left, and got
into many scrapes by so doing. But he was tlie
great opponent of the tale-bearing habits of the
school, and the open enemy of the ushers ; and
so worthy of all support.

Tom imbibed a fair amount of Latin and
Greek at the school, but somehow on the whole
it didn’t suit him, or he it, and in the holidays
he was constantly working the Squire to send
him at once to a public school. Great was his
joy, then, when in the middle of his third half-
year, in October 183-, a fever broke out in the
village; and the master having himself slightly
sickened of it, the whole of the boys were sent
oft’ at a day’s notice to their respective homes.

The Squire was not quite so pleased as Mas-
ter Tom to see that young gentleman’s brown
merry face appear at home, some two months
before the proper time, for the Cliristmas holi-
days : and so, after putting on his thinking-cap,
he retired to his study and wrote several letters,
the result of which was, that one morning at the
breakfast-table, about a fortnight after Tom’s re-
turn, he addressed his wife with — “My dear, I
have arranged that Tom shall go to Rugby at
once, for the last six weeks of this half-year, in-
stead of wasting them, riding and loitering about
home. It is very kind of the Doctor to allow it.
Will you see that his things are all ready by
Friday, when I shall take him up to town, and
send him down the next day by himself!”

Mrs. Brown was prepared for the announce-
ment, and merely suggested a doubt whether
Tom were yet old enough to travel by himself.
However, finding both father and son against
her on this point, she gave in like a wise wom-
an, and proceeded to.,prepare Tom’s kit for bis
launch into a public school.

CIIAFTER IV.

“ Let tlie ateam-pot hiss till it’s hot.

Give me the speed of the Tantivy trot."

CoachLng Sjng, by R. E. E. Waebubtox, Esc}.

Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tal-
ly-ho coach for Leicester’!! be round in half
an hour, and don't wait for nobody.” So spake
the Boots of the Peacock Inn, Islington, at
half-past two o’clock on the morning of a day
in the early part of November, 183-, gi'ing
Tom at the same time a shake by the shoulder,
and then putting down a candle and carrying
off his shoes to clean.

Tom and his father arrived in town from

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

Berkshire the day before, and finding, on in-
quiry, that the Birmingham coaches which ran
fioni the city did not pass through Rugby, but
deposited their passengers at Dunchurch, a vil-
lage three miles distant on the main road, where
said passengers had to wait for the Oxford and
Leicester coach in the evening, or to take a
post-chaise — had resolved that Tom should travel
down by the Tally-ho, which diverged from the
main road and passed through Rugby itself.
And as the Tally-ho was an early coach, they
had driven out to the Peacock to be on the road.

Tom had never been in London, and would
have liked to have stopped at the Belle Savage,
where they had been put down by the Star,
just at dusk, that he might have gone roving
about those endless, mysterious gas-lit streets,
which, with their glare and hum and moving
crowds, excited him so that he couldn’t talk
even. But as soon as he found that the Pea-
cock arrangement would get him to Rugby by
twelve o'clock in the day, whereas otherwise he
wouldn’t be there till the evening, all other plans
melted away ; his one absorbing aim being to
become a public-school boy as fast as possible,
and six hours sooner or later seeming to him of
the most alarming importance.

Tom and his father had alighted at the Pea-
cock, at about seven in the evening ; and having
heard with unfeigned joy the paternal order at

the bar, of steaks and oyster-sauce for supper iu
half an hour, and seen his father seated cosily
by the bright fire in the coffee-room with the
paper in his hand — Tom had run out to see
about him, had wondered at all the vehicles
passing and repassing, and had fraternized with
the boots and hostler, from whom he ascertained
that the Tally-ho was a tip-top goer, ten miles
an hour including stoppages, and so punctual
that all the road set their clocks by her.

Then being summoned to supper, he had re-
galed himself in one of the bright little boxes of
the Peacock coffee-room, on the beefsteak and
unlimited oyster-sauce, and brown stout (tasted
then for the first time — a day to be marked for-
ever by Tom with a white stone) ; had at first
attended to the excellent advice which his fatlicr
was bestowing on him from over his glass of
steaming brandy and water, and then begun
nodding, from the united effects of the stout, the
fire, and the lecture. Till the Squire observing
Tom’s state, and remembering that it tvas
nearly nine o’clock, and that the Tally-ho left
at three, sent the little fellow otf to the chamber-
maid, with a shake of the hand (Tom having
stipulated in the morning before starting, that
kissing should now cease between them) and a
few parting words.

“And now, Tom, my boy,” said the Squire,
“remember you are going, at your own earnest

BQUiUK aaows’b PAaxusG wokus.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

request, to be chucked into this great school,
like a young bear, with all your troubles before
you — earlier than we should have sent you per-
haps. If schools are what they were in my
time, you’ll see a great many cruel blackguard
things done, and hear a deal of foul bad talk.
But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a
brave and kind heart, and never listen to or say
any thing you wouldn’t have your mother and
sister hear, and you’ll never feel ashamed to
come home, or we to see you.”

The allusion to his mother made Tom feel
rather chokey, and he would have liked to have
hugged his father well, if it hadn’t been for the
recent stipulation.

As it was, he only squeezed his father’s hand,
and looked bravely up and said, “ I’ll try, father.”

“ I know you will, my boy. Is your money
all safe ?”

“ Yes,” said Tom, diving into one pocket to
make sure.

“ And your keys?” said the Squire.

“All right,” said Tom, diving into the other
pocket.

“ Well then, good-night. God bless you !
I'll tell Boots to call you, and be up to see you
off.”

Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in
a brown study, from which he was roused in a
dean little attic, by that buxom person calling
him a little darling, and kissing him as she left
the room ; which indignity he was too much sur-
prised to resent. And still thinking of his fa-
ther’s last words, and the look with which they
were spoken, he knelt down and prayed that,
come what might, he might never bring shame
or sorrow on the dear folk at home.

Indeed, the Squire’s last words deserved to
have their effect, for they had been the result of
much anxious thought. All the way up to Lon-
don he had pondered what he should say to
Tom by way of parting advice ; something that
the boy could keep in his head ready for use.
By way of assisting meditation, he had even
gone the length of taking out his flint and steel,
and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter
of an hour till he had manufactured a light for
a long Trichinopoli cheroot, which he silently
puffed ; to the no small wonder of Coachee, who
was an old friend, and an institution on the
Bath road ; and who always expected a talk on
the prospects and doings, agricultural and social,
of the whole county when he carried the Squire.

To condense the Squire’s meditation, it was
somewhat as follows : I won’t tell him to

read his Bible, and love and serve God ; if he
don’t do. that for his mother’s sake and teaching,
he won’t for mine. Shall I go into the sort of
temptations he’ll meet with ? No, I can't do
that. Never do for an old fellow to go into
such things with a boy. He won’t understand
me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one.
Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he’s
sent to school to make himself a good scholar ?
Well, but he isn’t sent to school for that — at
any rate not for that mainly. I don’t care a

straw for Greek particles, or the digamma ; no
more does his mother. What is he sent to
school for? Well, partly because he wanted
so to go. If he’ll only turn out a brave, helpful,
truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and
a Christian, that’s all I want,” thought the
Squire ; and upon this view of the case he
framed his last words of advice to Tom, which
were well enough suited to his purpose.

For they were Tom’s first thoughts as he
tumbled out of bed at the summons of Boots,
and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself.

At ten minutes to three he was down in the cof-
fee-room in his stockings, carrying his hat-box,
coat, and comforter in his hand ; and there be
found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup
of hot coffee and a hard biscuit on the table.

“Now then, Tom, give us your things here,
and drink this; there’s nothing like starting
warm, old fellow.”

Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prat- '
tied away while he worked himself into his shoea^
and his great coat, well warmed through ; '

Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight •
after the abominable fashion of those days. And
just as he is swallowing his last mouthful, wind-
ing his comforter round his throat, and tucking
the ends into the breast of his coat, the horn
sounds. Boots looks in and says, “ Tallyho, sir
and they hear the ring and the rattle of the four
fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it dashes
up to the Peacock.

“Any thing for us. Bob?” says the burly
guard, dropping down from behind, and slapping
himself across the chest.

“Young genl’m’n, Rugby; three parcels,
Leicester; hamper o’ game, Rugby,” answers
Hostler.

“Tell young gent to look alive,” says Guard,
opening the hind-boot and shooting in the par-
cels after examining them by the lamps. “Here,
shove the portmanteau up a-top — I’ll fasten him
presently. Now then, sir, jump up behind.”

“Good-bye, father — my love at home.” A
last shake of the hand. Up goes Tom, the guard
catching his hat-box and holding on with one
hand, while with the other he claps the horn to
his mouth. Toot, toot, toot! the hostlers let
go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar,
and away goes the Tally-ho into the darkness,
forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up ;
Hostler, Boots, and the Squire stand looking
after them under the Peacock lamp.

“ Sharp work !” says the Squire, and goes in
again to his bed, the coach being well out of
sight and hearing.

Tom stands up on the coach and looks back
at his father’s figure as long as he can see it, and’ .
then the guard having disposed of his luggage
comes to an anchor, and finislies his buttonings
and other preparations for facing the three hours
before dawn ; no joke for those who minded
cold, on a fast coach in November, in the reign
of his late majesty.

I sometimes think that you boys of this gen-
eration are a deal tenderer fellows than we used

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

to be. At any rate you are much more com-
fortable travellers, for I see every one of you
with his rug or plaid, and other dodges for pre-
serving the caloric, and most of you going in
those fuzzy, dusty, padded first-class carriages.
It was another affair altogether, a dark ride on
the top of the Tally-ho, I can tell you, in a tight
Petersham coat, and your feet dangling six
inches from the floor. Then you knew what
cold was, and what it was to be without legs,
for not a bit of feeling had you in them after the
first half-hour. But it had its i)leasurcs — the old
dark ride. Pirst there was the consciousness of
silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman —
standing out against something, and not giving
in. Then there was the music of the rattling
harness, and the ring of the horses’ feet on the
hard road, and the glare of the two bright lamps
through the steaming hoar-frost, over the leaders’
ears, into the darkness ; and the cheery toot of
the guard’s horn, to warn some drowsy pike-
man or the hostler at the next change ; and the
looking forward to daylight — and last, but not
least, the delight of returning sensation in your
toes.

Then the break of dawn and the sunrise,
where can they be ever seen in perfection but
from a coacli roof? You want motion and change
and music to see them in their glory ; not the
music of singing-men and singing-women, but
good silent music, which sets itself in your own
head, the accompaniment of work and getting
over the ground.

Tlie Tally-ho is past St. Alban’s, and Tom is
enjoying the ride though halffrozen. The guard,
who is alone with him on the back of the coach,
is silent, but has muffled Tom’s feet up in straw,
and put the end of an oat sack over his knees.
Tlie darkness has driven him inward, and he
has gone over his little past life, and thought of
all his doings and promises, and of his mother
and sister, and his f.ither’s last words; and has
made fifty good resolutions, and means to bear
himself like a brave Brown as he is, though a
young one. Then he has been forward into the
mysterious boy-future, speculating as to what
sort of a place Rugby is, and what they do there,
and calling up all the stories of public schools
which he has heard from big boys in the holi-
days. He is chock full of hope and life, not-
withstanding the cold, and kicks his heels against
the backboard, and would like to sing, only he
doesn’t know how his friend the silent guard
might take it.

And now the dawn breaks at the end of the
fourth stage, and the coach pulls up at a little
road-side inn with huge stables beliind. There
id a bright fire gleaming through the red cur-
tains of the bar-window, and the door is open.
The coachman catches his whip into a double
thong, and throws it to the hostler ; the steam
of the horses rises straight up into the air. He
has put them along over the last two miles, and
is two minutes before his time ; he rolls down
from the box and into the inn. The guard rolls
oflF behind. “ Now, sir,” says he to Tom, “ you

just jump dowm, and I’ll give you a drop of some-
thing to keep the cold out.”

Tom finds a difficulty in jumping, or indeed
in finding the top of the wheel with his feet,
which may be in the next world for all he feels ;
so the guard picks him off the coach-top, and
sets him on his legs, and they stump off into
the bar, and join the coachman and the other
outside passengers.

Here a fresh-looking barmaid serves them
each with a glass of early purl as they stand be-
fore the fire, coachman and guard exchanging
business remarks. The purl warms the cockles
of Tom’s heart, and makes him cough.

“Rare tackle, that, sir, of a cold morning,”
says the coachman, smiling ; “Time’s up.”
They are out again and up ; coachee the last,
gathering the reins into his hands and talking
to Jem the hostler about the mare’s shoulder,
and then swinging himself up on to the box —
the horses dashing off in a canter before he falls
into his seat. Toot-toot-tootle-too goes the
horn, and away they are again, five-and-thirty
miles on their road (nearly half way to Rugby,
thinks Tom), and the prospect of breakfast at the
end of the stage.

And now they begin to see, and the early life
of the country-side comes out : a market cart or
two, men in smock-frocks going to their w'ork
pipe in mouth, a whiff of which is no bad smell
this bright morning. The sun gets up, and the
mist shines like silver gauze. They pass the
hounds jogging along to a distant meet, at the
heels of the huntsman’s hack, whose face is about
the color of the tails of his old pink, as he ex-
changes greetings with coachman and guard.
Now they pull up at a lodge, arid take on board
a well-muffled-up sportsman, with his gun-case
and carpet-bag. An eiirly up-coach meets them,
and the coachmen gather up their horses, and
pass one another with the accustomed lift of the
elbow, each team doing eleven miles an hour,
with a mile to spare behind if necessary. And
here comes breakfast.

“ Twenty minutes here, gentlemen,” says the
coachman, as they pull up at half-past seven at
the inn-door.

Have we not endured nobly this morning, and
is not this a worthy reward for much endur-
ance ? There is the low dark wainscoted room
hung with sporting prints ; the hat-stand (with
a whip or two standing up in it belonging to
bagmen who are still snug in bed) by the door ;
the blazing fire, with the quaint old glass over
the mantel-piece, in which is stuck a large card
with the lists of the meets for the week of the
county hounds. The table covered with the
whitest of cloths and of china, and bearing a
pigeon-pie, ham, round of cold boiled beef cut
from a mammoth ox, and the great loaf of house-
hold bread on a wooden trencher. And here
comes in the stout head wmiter, puffing under
a tray of hot viands ; kidneys and a steak, trans-
parent rashers and poached eggs, buttered toast
and muffins, coffee and tea, all smoking hot.
The table can never hold it all ; the cold meats

TOM BROWN’S

are removed to the sideboard, they were only
put on for show and to give us an appetite.
And now full on, gentlemen all. It is a well-
known sporting-honse, and the breakfasts are
fiimous. Two or three men in pink, on their
way to the meet, drop in, and are very jovial and
sharp-set, as indeed we all are.

“Tea or coffee, sir?” says head waiter, com-
ing round to Tom.

“ Coffee, please,” says Tom, with his mouth
full of muffin and kidney; coffee is a treat to
him, tea is not.

Our coachman, I perceive, who breakfasts with
us, is a cold-beef man. He also eschews hot po-
tations, and addicts himself to a tankard of ale,
which is brought him by the bar-maid. Sports-
man looks on approvingly, and orders a ditto
for himself.

Tom has eaten kidney and pigeon-pie, and
imbibed coffee, till his little skin is as tight as a
drum ; and then has the further pleasure of
paying head waiter out of his own purse, in a
dignified manner, and walks out before the inn-
door to see the horses put to. This is done
leisurely and in a highly-finished manner by
the hostlers, as if they enjoyed the not being
hurried. Coachman comes out with his way-
bill and puffing a fat cigar which the sportsman
has given him. Guard emerges from the tap,
where he prefers breakfasting, licking round a
tough-looking doubtful cheroot, which you might
tie round your finger, and three whiffs of which
would knock any one else out of lime.

The pinks stand about the inn-door lighting
cigars and waiting to see us start, while their
hacks are led up and down the market-place on
which the inn looks. They all know our sports-
man, and we feel' a reflected credit when we see
him chatting and laughing with them.

“Now, sir, please,” says the coachman; all
the rest of the passengers are up ; the guard is
locking up the hind boot.

“A good run to you !” says the sportsman to
the pinks, and is by the coachman’s side in no
time.

“ Let ’em go, Dick !” The hostlers fly back,
drawing off the cloths from their glossy loins,
and away we go through the market-place and
down the High Street, looking in at the first-
floor windows, and seeing several worthy bur-
gesses shaving thereat ; while all the shop-boys
who are cleaning the windows, and house-maids
who are doing the steps, stop and look pleased
as we rattle past, as if we w'ere a part of their
legitimate morning’s amusement. We clear the
town, and are well out between the hedgerows
again as the town clock strikes eight.

Tlie sun shines almost warmly, and breakfast
has oiled all springs and loosened all tongues.
Tom is encouraged by a remark or two of the
guard’s between the puffs of his oily cheroot,
and besides is getting tired of not talking. Ho
is too full of his destination to talk about any
thing else ; and so asks the guard if he knows
Rugby.

“ Goes through it every day of my life.

SCHOOL DAYS. 37

Twenty minutes afore twelve down — ten o’clock
up.”

“What sort of place is it, please ?” says Tom.

Guard looks at him with a comical expression.
“Werry out-o’-the way place, sir; no paving
to streets, nor no lighting. ’Mazin’ big liorse
and cattle fair in autumn — lasts a week — ^just
over now. Takes town a week to get clean
after it. Fairish hunting country. But slow
place, sir, slow place: off tlie main road, you
see — only three coaches a day, and one on ’em
a two-oss wan, more like a hearse nor a
coach — Regulator — comes from Oxford. Young
genl’m’n at school calls her Pig and Wliistle,
and goes up to college by her (six miles an
hour) when they goes to enter. Belong to
school, sir?”

“Yes,” says Tom, not unwilling for a mo-
ment that the guard should think him an old
boy ; but then having some qualms as to the
truth of the assertion, and seeing that if he were
to assume the character of an old boy he couldn’t
go on asking the questions he wanted, added —
“that is to say. I’m on my way there. I’m a
new boy.”

The guard looked as if he knew this quite as
well as Tom.

“You’re werry late, sir,” says the guard;
“ only six weeks to-day to the end of the half.”
Tom assented. “We takes up fine loads this
day six weeks, and Monday and Tuesday arter.
Hopes we shall have the pleasure of carrying
you back.”

Tom said he hoped they would; but he
thought within himself that his fate would prob-
ably be the Pig and Whistle.

“It pays uncommon cert’nly” continues the
guard. “Werry free with their cash is the
young genl’m’n. But, Lor’ bless you, we gets
into such rows all ’long the road, what wi’ their
pea-shooters, and long v/hips, and hollering, and
upsetting every one as comes by; I’d a sight
sooner carry one or two on ’em, sir, as I may
be a carryin’ of you now, than a coach-load.”

“What do they do with the pea-shooters?”
inquires Tom.

‘ ‘ Do wi’ ’em ! why, peppers every one’s faces
as we comes near, ’cept the young gals, and
breaks windows wi’ them too, some on ’em
shoots so hard. Now ’twas just here last June,
as we wms a driving up the first-day boys, they
was mendin’ a quarter-mile of road, and there
was a lot of Irish chaps, reg’lar roughs, a break-
ing stones. As we comes up, ‘ Nowq boys,’ says
young gent on the box (smart young fellow, and
desper’t reckless), ‘ here’s fun ! let the Pats have
it about the ears.’ ‘ God’s sake, sir 1’ says Bob
(that’s my mate the coachman), ‘ don’t go for
to shoot at ’em, they’ll knock us off the coach.’
‘Damme, Coachee,’ says young my lord, ‘you
ain’t afraid; hoora, boys! let ’em have it.’
‘Hoora!’ sings out the others, and fill their
mouths chuck full of peas to last the whole line.
Bob, seeing as ’twas to come, knocks his hat
over his eyes, hollers to his ’osses, and shakes
’em up, and aw'ay we goes up to the line on ’em.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

twenty miles an hour. The Pats begin to hoora
too, thinking it was a runaway, and first lot on
’em stands grinnin’ and wavin’ their old hats as
we comes abreast on ’em ; and then you’d ha’
laughed to see how took aback and choking sav-

all,’ surely. They howls all down the line fit
to frighten you, some on ’em runs arter us and
tries to clamber up behind, only we hits ’em
over the fingers and pulls their hands off ; one
as had had it very sharp act’ly runs right at the

•age they looked, when they gets the peas a
stinging all over ’em. But bless you, the laugh
weren’t all of our side, sir, by a long way. We
was going so fast, and they was so took aback,
that they didn’t take what was up till we was
half-way up the line. Then ’twas ‘Look out

leaders, as though he’d ketch ’em by the heads,
only luck’ly for him he misses his tip and comes
over a heap o’ stones first. The rest picks up
stones, and gives it us right away till we gets
out of shot, the young gents holding out worry
manful with the pea-shooters and such stones as

TOM BKOWN S SCHOOL DAYS.

lodged on us, and a pretty many there was too.
Then Bob picks hisself up again, and looks at
young gent on box werry solemn. Bob’d had a
rum un in the ribs, whieh’d like to ha’ knocked
him off the box, or made him drop the reins.
Young gent on box picks hisself up, and so
docs we all, and looks round to count damage.
Box’s head cut open and his hat gone ; nother
young gent’s hat gone ; mine knocked in at the
side, and not one on us as wasn’t black and
blue somewheres or another, most on ’em all
over. Two pound ten to pay for damage to
paint, which they subscribed for there and then,
and give Bob and me a extra half-sovereign
each ; but I wouldn’t go down that line again
not for twenty half-sovereigns.” And the guard
shook his head slowly, and got up and blew a
clear brisk toot-toot.

“What fun !” said Tom, who could scarcely
contain his pride at this exploit of his future
schoolfellows. He longed already for the end
of the half that he might join them.

“ ’Tain’t such good fun though, sir, for the
folk as meets the coach, nor for we who has to
go back with it next day. Them Irishers last
summer had all got stones ready for us, and was
all but letting drive, and we’d got two reverend
gents aboard too. AVe pulled up at the begin-
ning of the line, and pacified them, and we’re
never going to carry no more pea-shooters, un-
less they promises not to fire where there’s a
line of Irish chaps a stone-breaking.” The
guard stoj)ped and pulled away at his cheroot,
regarding Tom benignantly the while.

“Oh, don’t stop! tell us something more
about the pea-shooting.”

“Well, there’d like to haA’e been a pretty
piece of work over it at Bicester, a while back.
Wq was six mile from the town, when we meets
an old square-headed gray-haired yeoman chap,
a jogging along quite quiet. He looks up at
the coach, and just then a pea hits him on the
nose, and some catches his cob behind and makes
him dance up on his hind legs. I see’d the old
boy’s face flush and look plaguy awkward, and
I thought we was in for somethin’ nasty.

“ He turns his cob’s head, and rides quietly
after us just out of shot. How that ere cob did
step ! we never shook him off not a dozen yards
in the six miles. At first the young gents was
werry lively on him ; but afore we got in, seeing
how steady the old chap come on, they was quite
quiet, and laid their heads together what they
should do. Some was for fighting, some for
axing his pardon. He rides into the town close
after us, comes up when we stops, and says the
two as shot at him must come before a magis-
trate ; and a great crowd comes round, and we
couldn’t get the osses to. But the young uns
they all stand by one another, and says all or
none must go, and as how they’d fight it out,
and have to be carried. Just as ’twas gettin’
serious, and the old boy and the mob was going
to pull ’em off the coach, one little fellow jumps
up and says, ‘ Here — I’ll stay — I’m only going
three miles fltrther. My fatlicr’s name’s Davis,

he’s known about here, and I’ll go before the
magistrate with this gentleman.’ ‘What! be
thee parson Davis’s son’r” savs the old boy.
‘Yes,’ says the young un. ‘ Well, I be mortal
sorry to meet thee in such company, but for thy
father’s sake and thine (for tlice bi’st a brave
young chap) I’ll say no more about it.’ Didn’t
the boys cheer him, and the mob cheered the
young chap — and then one of the biggest gets
down, and begs his pardon werry gentlemanly
for all the rest, saying as they all had been
plaguy vexed from the first, but didn’t like to ax
his pardon till then, ’cause they felt they hadn’t
ought to shirk the consequences of tlieir joke.
And then they all got down, and shook hands
with the old boy, and asked him to all parts of
the country, to their homes, and we drives off
twenty minutes behind time, with cheering and
hollering as if we was county members. But,
Lor’ bless you, sir,” says the guard, smacking
his hand down on his knee and looking full into
Tom’s face, “ ten minutes arter they was all as
bad as ever.”

Tom showed such undisguised and open-
mouthed interest in his narrations, that the old
guard rubbed up his memory, and launclied out
into a graphic history of all the performances
of the boys on the roads for the last twenty
years. Off the road he couldn’t go ; the exploit
must have been connected with horses or vehi-
cles to hang in the old fellow’s head. Tom tried
him off his own ground once or twice, but found
he knew nothing beyond, and so let him have
his head, and the rest of the road bowled easily
away ; for old Blow-hard (as the boys called
him) was a dry old file, with much kindness
and humor, and a capital spinner of a yarn when
he had broken the neck of his day’s work, and
got plenty of ale under his belt.

What struck Tom’s youthful imagination
most, was the desperate and lawless character
of most of the stories. Was the guard hoaxing
him? He couldn’t help hoping that they were
true. It’s very odd how almost all English boys
love danger ; you can get ten to join a game, or
climb a tree, or swim a stream, when thei'e’s a
chance of breaking their limbs or getting drown-
ed, for one who’ll stay on level ground, or in his
depth, or play quoits or bowls.

The guard had just finished an account of a
desperate fight which had happened at one of
the fairs between the drovers and the farmers
with their whips, and the boys with cricket-bats
and wickets, which arose out of a playful but
objectionable practice of the boys going round to
the public-houses and taking the linch-pins out
of the wheels of the gigs, and was moralizing
upon the way in which the Doctor, “a terrible
stern man he’d heard tell,” had come down upon
several of the performers, “ sending three on ’em
off next morning, each in a po-chay with a par-
ish constable,” when they turned a comer and
neared the milestone, the third from Eugby.
By the stone two boys stood, their jackets but-
toned tight, waiting for the coach.

“ Look here, sir,” says the guard, after giving

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

a sharp toot-toot, “ there’s two on ’em, out and
out runners they be. They comes out about
twice or three times a week, and spirts a mile
alongside of us.”

And as they came up, sure enough, away
went two boys along the footpath, keeping up
with the horses ; the first a light clean-made
fellow going on springs, the other stout and
round-shouldered, laboring in his pace, but go-
ing as dogged as a bull-terrier.

Old Blow-hard looked on admiringly. “ See
how beautiful that there un holds hisself to-
gether, and goes from his hips, sir,” said he;
“ he’s a 'mazin’ fine runner. Now many coach-
men as drives a first-rate team’d put it on, and
try and pass ’em. But Bob, sir, bless you, he’s
tender-hearted; he’d sooner pull in a bit if he
see’d ’em a gettin beat. I do b’lieve too as that
there un’d sooner break his heart than let us go
by him afore next milestone.”

At the second milestone the boys pulled up
short, and waved their hats to the guard, who
had his watch out and shouted “ 4.56,” thereby
indicating that the mile had been done in four
seconds under the five minutes. They passed
several more parties of boj's, all of them objects
of the deepest interest to Tom, and came in
sight of the town at ten minutes before twelve.
Tom fetched a long breath, and thought he had
never spent a pleasanter day. Before he went
to bed he had quite settled that it must be the
greatest day he should ever spend, and didn’t
alter his opinion for many a long year — if he
has yet.

CHAPTER V.

KUGBY AKD FOOTBALL.

“ — Foot and eye opposed
In dubious strife.” — Scorr.

“And so here’s Rugby, sir, at last, and you’ll
be in plenty of time for dinner at the School-
house, as I toll’d you,” said the old guard,
pulling his horn out of its case, and tootle-
tooing away ; while the coachman shook up
his horses, and carried them along the side of
the school close, round Deadman’s corner, past
the school gates, and down the High Street to
the Spread Eagle ; the wheelers in a spanking
trot, and leaders cantering, in a style which
would not have disgraced “ Cheriy Bob,”
“ramping, stamping, tearing, swearing Billy
Harwood,” or any other of the old coaching
heroes.

Tom’s heart beat quick as he passed the great
school field or close, with its noble elms, in
which several games at football were going on,
and tried to take in at once the long line of
gray buildings, beginning with the chapel, and
ending with the School-house, the residence of
the head-master, where the great flag was lazily
waving from the highest round tower. And he
began already to be proud of being a Rugby boy,
as he passed the school-gates with the oriel-win-
dow above, and saw the boys standing there.

looking as if the town belonged to them, and
nodding in a familiar manner to the coachman,
as if any one of them would be quite equal to
getting on the box, and working the team down
street as well as he.

One of the young heroes, however, ran out
from the rest, and scrambled up behind ; where,
having righted himself, and nodded to the guard,
with “How do, Jem ?” he turned short round to
Tom, and, after looking him over for a minute,
began —

“I say, you fellow, is your name Brown?”

“Yes,” said Tom, in considerable astonish-
ment ; glad, however, to have lighted on some
one already who seemed to know him.

“ Ah, I thought so : you know my old aunt,
Miss East, she lives somewhere down your way
in Berkshire. She wrote to me that you were
coming to-dav, and asked me to give you a
lift.”

Tom was somewhat incliued to resent the
patronizing air of his new friend, a boy of just
about his own height and age, but gifted with
the most transcendent coolness and assuranee,
which Tom felt to be aggravating and hard to
bear, but couldn’t for the life of him help ad-
miring and envying — especially when young my
lord begins hectoring two or three long loafing
fellows, half porter half stableman, with a strong
touch of the blackguard ; and in. the end ar-
ranges with one of them, nicknamed Cooey, to
carry Tom’s luggage up to the School-house for
sixpence.

“And heark’ee, Cooey, it must be up in ten
minutes, or no more jobs from me. Come along.
Brown.” And away swaggers the young po-
tentate, with his hands in his pockets, and Tom
at his side.

“All right, sir,” says Cooey, touching his
hat, with a leer and a wink at his companions.

“ Hullo tho’,” says East, pulling up, and
taking another look at Tom, “this’ll never do —
haven't you got a hat? — we never wear caps
here. Only the louts wear caps. Bless you, if
you were to go into the quadrangle with that
thing on, I — don’t know what’d happen.” The
very idea was quite beyond young Master East,
and he looked unutterable things.

Tom thought his cap a very knowing affair,
but confessed that he had a hat in bis liat-box ;
which was accordingly at once extracted from
the hind boot, and Tom equipped in his go-to-
meeting roof, as his new friend called it. But
this didn’t quite suit his fastidious taste in an-
other minute, being too shiny ; so, as they walk
up the town, they dive into Nixon’s the hatter’s,
and Tom is arrayed, to his utter astonishment
and without paying for it, in a regulation cat-
skin at seven-and-sixpence ; Nixon undertaking
to send the best hat up to the matron’s room.
School-house, in half an hour.

“You can send in a note for a tile on Mon-
day, and make it all right, you know,” said
Mentor ; “ we’re allowed two seven-and-sixers a
half, besides what we bring from home.”

Tom by tliis time began to be conscious of

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

Ills new social position and dignities, and to
luxuriate in the realized ambition of being a
public-school boy at last, with a vested right of
spoiling two seven-and-sixers in half a year.

‘“You see,” said his friend, as they strolled
up towards the school-gates, in explanation of
his conc^ict, “ a great deal depends on how a
fellow cuts up at first. If he’s got nothing odd
about him, and answers straightforward, and
holds his head up, he gets on. Now you’ll do
very well as to rig, all but that cap. You see
I’m doing the handsome thing by you, because
my father knows yours ; besides, I want to
please the old lady. She gave me half-a-sov
this half, and perhaps’ll double it next, if I
keep in her good books.”

There’s nothing for candor like a lower-
school boy, and East was a genuine specimen —
frank, hearty, and good-natured, well satisfied
with himself and his position, and chock full of
life and spirits, and all the Rugby prejudices
and traditions which he had been able to get
together in the long course of one half year
during which he had been at the School-house.

And Tom, notwithstanding his bumptious-
ness, felt friends with him at once, and began
sucking in all his ways and prejudices, as fast
as he could understand them.

East was great in the character of cicerone ;
he carried Tom through the great gates, where
were only two or three boys. These satisfied
themselves with the stock questions — “You
fellow, what’s your name ? Where do you come
from ? How old are you ? Where do you
board? and. What form are you in?” — and so
they passed on through the quadrangle and a
small courtyard, upon which looked down a lot
of little windows (belonging, as his guide in-
formed him, to some of the School-house stud-
ies), into the matron’s room, where East intro-
duced Tom to that dignitary ; made him give
up the key of his trunk, that the matron might
unpack his linen, and told the story of the hat
and of his own presence of mind : upon the re-
lation whereof the matron laughingly scolded
him, for the coolest new boy in the house ; and
East, indignant at the accusation of newness,
marched Tom off into the quadrangle, and be-
gan showing him the schools, and examining
him as to his literary attainments ; the result
of which was a prophecy that they would be in
tlie same form, and could do their lessons to-
gether.

“ And now come in and see my study ; we
sliall have just time before dinner ; and after-
wards, before calling over, we’ll do the close.”

Tom followed his guide through the School-
house hall, which opens into the quadrangle.
It is a great room thirty feet long and eighteen
high, or thereabouts, Avith two great tables run-
ning the whole length, and two large fire-places
at the side, with blazing fires in them, at one of
which some dozen boys were standing and
lounging, some of whom shouted to East to
stop ; but he shot through with his convoy,
and landed him in the long dark passages, witli

a large fire at the end of each, upon Avliick the
studies opened. Into one of these, in the bot-
tom passage. East bolted with our hero, slam-
ming and bolting the door behind them, in case
of pursuit from the hall, and Tom was for the
first time in a Rugby boy’s citadel.

lie hadn’t been ]>repared for separate studies,
and was not a little astonished and delighted
with the palace in question.

It wasn’t very large certainly, being about
six feet long by four broad. It couldn’t be
called light, as there were bars and a grating to
the Avindow ; Avhich little precautions Avere nec-
essary in the studies on the ground floor looking
out into the close, to preA'ent the exit of small
boys after locking up, and the entrance of con-
traband articles. But it Avas uncommonly com-
fortable to look at, Tom thought. The space
under the Avindow at the farther end was occu-
pied by a square table covered with a reasona-
bly clean and Avhole red and blue check table-
cloth ; a hard-seated sofa covered Avith red
stuff occupied one side, running up to the end,
and making a seat for one, or by sitting close,
for two, at the table ; and a good stout Avooden
chair afforded a seat to another boy, so that
three could sit and Avork together. The Avails
were wainscoted half-way up, the Avainscot be-
ing covered with green baize, the remainder
Avith a bright-patterned paper, on Avhich hung
three or four prints, of dogs’ heads, Grimaldi
winning the Aylesbury steeple-chase, Amy
Robsart, the reigning Waverley beauty of the
day, and Tom Crib in a posture of defense,
Avhich did no credit to the science of that hero,
if truly represented. Over the door Avas a roAv
of hat-pegs, and on each side bookcases Avith
cupboards at the bottom ; shelves and cup-
boards being filled indiscriminately Avith school-
books, a cup or tAvo, a mousetrap, and candle-
sticks, leather straps, a fustian bag, and some
curious-looking articles, Avhich puzzled Tom
not a little, until his friend explained that they
Avere climbing irons, and shoWed their use. A
cricket-bat and small fishing-rod stood up in
one corner.

This Avas the residence of East and another
boy in the same form, and had more interest
for Tom than Windsor Castle, or any other
residence in the British Isles. For was he not
about to become the joint owner of a similar
home, the first place he could call his OAvn ?
One's OAvn — Avhat a charm there is in the
Avords ! Hoav long it takes boy and man to
find out their Avorth ! how fast most of us hold
on to them ! faster and more jealously, the
nearer Ave are to that general home, into Avhich
Ave can take nothing, but must go naked as aa'c
came into the Avorld. When shall Ave learn
that he Avho multiplieth possession multiplieth
troubles, and that the one single use of things
Avhich Ave call our OAvn is that they may be his
Avho hath need of them ?

“And shall I haA-o a study like this, too?”
said Tom.

“ Yes, of course, you’ll be chummed Avith

TOM BEOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

some fellow on Monday, and you can sit here
till then.”

“ What nice places !”

“They’re well enough,” answered East pat-
ronizingly, “ only uncommon cold at niglits
sometimes. Gower — that’s my chum — and I
make a fire with paper on the floor after supper
generally, only that makes it so smoky.”

“But there’s a big fire out in the passage,”
said Tom.

“Precious little we get out of that tho’,”
said East ; “Jones the prmpostor has the study
at the fire end, and he has rigged up an iron rod
and green baize curtain across the passage,
which he draws at night, and sits there with his
door open, so he gets all the fire, and hears if
we come out of our studies after eight, or make a
noise. However, he's taken to sitting in the
fifth-form room lately, so we do get a bit of
fire now sometimes ; only to keep a sharp look-
out that he don’t catch you behind his curtain
when he comes down — that’s all.”

A quarter past one now struck, and the bell
began tolling for dinner, so they went into the
hall tint! took their places, Tom at the very bot-
tom of the second table, next to the praepostor
(who sat at the end to keep order there), and
East a few paces higher. And now Tom for
the first time saw his future schoolfellows in a
body. In they came, some hot and ruddy from
football or long walks, some pale and chilly from
hard reading in their studies, some from loiter-
ing over the fire at the pastrycook’s, dainty mor-
tals, bringing with them pickles and sauce-bot-
tles to help them with their dinners. And a
great big-bearded man, whom To-m took for a
master, began calling over the names, while the
great joints were being rapidly carved on the
third table in the corner by the old verger and
the housekeeper. Tom’s turn came last, and
meanwhile he was all eyes, looking first with awe
at the great man who sat close to him, and was
helped first, and who read a hard-looking book
all the time he w^as eating ; and when he got
up and walked off to the fire, at the small boys
round him, some of whom were reading, and the
rest talking in whispers to one another, or steal-
ing one another’s bread, or shooting pellets, or
digging their forks through the tablecloth.
However, notwithstanding his curiosity, he man-
aged to make a capital dinner by the time the
big man called “Stand up !” and said grace.

As soon as dinner was over, and Tom had
been questioned by such of his neighbors as
were curious as to his birth, parentage, educa-
tion, and other like matters. East, who evident-
ly enjoyed his new dignity of patron and Men-
tor, proposed having a look at the close, which
Tom, athirst for knowledge, gladly assented to,
and they went out through the quadrangle and
past the big fives’ court, into the great play-
ground.

“That’s the chapel, you see,” said East,
“and there just behind it is the place for fights ;
you see it’s most out of the way of the masters,
who all live on the other side and don’t come

by here after the first lesson or callings-ova
That’s when the fights come off. And all th,s
part where we are is the little side ground, right
up to the trees, and on the other side of the
trees is the big side ground, where the great
matches are played. And there’s the island in
the farthest corner; you’ll know t^at well
enough next half, when there’s island fagging.
I say, it’s horrid cold, let’s have a run across
and away went East, Tom close behind him.
East was evidently putting his best foot fore-
most, and Tom, who was mighty proud of his
running, and not a little anxious to show his
friend that although a new boy he was no milk-
sop, laid himself down to work in his very best
style. Eight across the close they went, each
doing all he knew, and there wasn't a yard be-
tween them when they pulled up at the island-
moat.

“I say,” said East, as soon as he got his wind,
looking with much increased respect at Tom,
“ you ain’t a bad scud, not by no means. Well,
I’m as warm as toast now.”

“ But why do you wear white trowsers in No-
vember ?” said Tom. He had been struck by
this peculiarity in the costume of almost all the
School-house boys.

‘ ‘ Why, bless us, don’t you know ? No, I for-
got. Why, to day’s the School-house match.
Our house plays the whole of the School at foot-
ball. And we all wear white trowsers, to show
’em we don’t care for hacks. You’re in luck to
come to-day. You just will sec a match ; and
Brooke’s going to let me play in quarters. That’s
more than he’ll do for any other lower-school
boy, except James, and he's fourteen.”

“ Who’s Brooke ?”

“ Why, that big fellow who called over at din-
ner, to be sure. He’s cock of the school, and
head of the School-house side, and the best kick
and charger in Eugby.”

“ Oh, but do show me where they play. And
tell me about it. I love football so, and have
played all my life. Won’t BrocSke let me play ?”

“ Not he,” said East, with some indignation ;

‘ ‘ why, you don’t know the rules — you’ll be a
month learning them. And then it’s no joke
playing-up in a match, I can tell you. Quite
another thing from j-our private scliool games.
Why, there’s been two collar-bones broken this
half, and a dozen fellows lamed. And last year
a fellow had his leg broken.”

Tom listened with the profoundest respect to
this chapter of accidents, and followed East
across the level ground till they came to a sort
of gigantic gallows of two poles eighteen feet
high, fixed upright in the ground some fourteen
feet apart, with a cross-bar running from one
to the other at the height of ten feet or there-
abouts.

“ This is one of the goals,” said East, “ and
you see the other, across there, right opposite,
under the Doctor’s wall. Well, the match is
for the best of three goals ; whichever side kicks
two goals wins : and it won’t do, you see, just
to kick the ball through these posts, it must go

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

Jyi

over the cross-bar ; any heif^ht ll do, so long as
it’s between the posts. You’ll have to stay in
goal to touch the ball when it rolls behind the
posts, because if the other side touch it they
have a try at goal. Then we fellows in quar-
ters, we play just about in front of goal here,
and have to turn the ball and kick it back
before the -big fellows on the other side can fol-
low it up. And in front of us all the big fellows
play, and that’s where the scrummages are
mostly.”

Tom’s respect increased as he struggled to
make out his friend’s technicalities, and the other
set to work to explain the mysteries of “ off your
side,” “drop-kicks,” “punts,” “places,” and
the other intricacies of the great science of foot-
ball.

“ But how do you keep the ball between the
goals ?” said he ; “ I can't see why it mightn’t
go right down to the chapel.”

“Why, that’s out of play,” answered East.
“You see this gravel-walk running down all
along this side of the playing-ground, and the
line of elms opposite on the other? Well, they’re
the bounds. As soon as the ball gets past thein,
it’s in touch, and out of play. And then who-
ever first touches it, has to knock it straight out
amongst the players-up, who make two lines with
a space between them, every fellow going on his
own side. Ain’t there just fine scrummages
then ! and the three trees you see there which
come out into the play, that’s a tremendous place
when the ball hangs there, for you get thrown
against the trees, and that’s worse than any
hack.”

Tom wondered within himself, as they strolled
back again towards the fives’ court, whether the
matches were really such break-neck affiiirs as
East represented, and whether, if they were,
he should ever get to like them and play-up
well.

He hadn’t long to wonder, however, for next
minute East cried out, “Hurra! here’s the punt-
about— come along and try your hand at a kick.”
The punt-about is the practice-ball, which is just
brought out and kicked about anyhow from one
boy to another before callings-over and dinner,
and at other odd times. They joined the boys
who brought it out, all small School-house fel-
lows, friends of East ; and Tom had the pleasure
of trying his skill, and performed very creditably,
after first driving his foot three inches into the
ground, and then nearly kicking his leg into the
air, in vigorous efforts to aceomplish a drop-kick
after the manner of East.

Presently more boys and bigger came out, and
boys from other houses on their way to calling-
over, and more balls were sent for. The crowd
thickened as three o’clock approached ; and when
the hour struck, one hundred and fifty boys were
hard at work. Then the balls were held, the
master of the week came down in cap and gown
to calling-over, and the whole school of three
hundred boys swept into the big school to answer
to their names.

“I may come in, mayn’t I ?” said Tom. catch-

ing East by the arm and longing to feel one of
them.

“Yes, come along, nobody’ll say any tiling.
You won’t be so eager to get into calling-over
after a month,” replied his friend ; and they
marched into the big school together, and up to
the farther end, where that illustrious form, the
lower fourth, wliich had the honor of East’s pat-
ronage for the time-being, stood.

The master mounted into the high desk by
the door, and one of the praepostors of the week
stood by him on the steps, the other three march-
ing up and down the middle of the school with
their canes, calling out “ Silence, silence I” The
sixth form stood close by the door on the left,
some thirty in number, mostly great big grown
men, as ’rom thought, surveying tliem from
a distance with awe. The fifth form behind

them, twice their number, and not quite so big.
These on the left ; and on the right the lower
fifth, shell, and all the junior forms in order;
while up the middle marched the three prajpos-
tors.

Then the praepostor who stands by the master
calls out the names, beginning with the sixth
form ; and as he calls, each boy answers “ here ’'
to his name, and walks out. Some of the sixth
stop at the door to turn the whole string of
boys into the close ; it is a great match day,
and every boy in the school, will-he, nill-he,
must be there. The rest of the sixth go forward
into the close, to see that no one escapes by any
of the side gates.

To-day, however, being the School-house
match, none of the School-house praapostors stay
by the door to watch for truants of their side ;
there is carte hlanche to the School-house fags to
go where they like : “ They trust to our honor,”
as East proudly informs Tom ; “ they know-
very well that no School-house boy would cut
the match. If he did, we’d very soon cut him,
I can tell you.”

The master of the week being short-sighted,
and the praepostors of the week small, and not
well up to their work, the lower-school boys
employ the ten minutes which elapse before their
names are called, in pelting one another vigorous-
ly with acorns, which fly about in all directions.
The small praepostors dash in every now and

then, and generally chastise some quiet, timid
boy, who is equally afraid of acorns and canes,
while the principal performers get dexterously
out of the way ; and so calling-over rolls on
somehow, much like the big world, punishments
lighting on wrong shoulders, and matters going
generally in a queer, cross-grained way, but the
end coming somehow, which is after all the great
point. And now the master of the week has
finished, and locked up the big school ; and the
praepostors of the week come out, sweeping the
last remnant of the School fags — who had been
loafing about the corners by the fives’ court, in
hopes of a chance of bolting — before them into
the close.

“Hold the punt-about!” ‘‘To the goals!”
are the cries, and all stray balls are impounded

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS-

by the authorities ; aud the whole mass of boys
moves up towards the two goals, dividing as they
go into three bodies. That little band on the
left, consisting of from fifteen to twenty boys,
Tom amongst them, who are making for the
goal under the School-house wall, are the School-
house boys who are not to play-up, and have to
stay in goal. The larger body moving to the
island goal are the School boys in a like pre-
dicament. The great mass in the middle are
the players-up, both sides mingled together ;
they are hanging their jackets, and all who
mean real work, their hats, waistcoats, neck-
handkerchiefs, and braces, on the railings round
the small trees ; and there they go by twos and
threes up to their respective grounds. There is
none of the color and tastiness of get-up, you
will perceive, which lends such a life to the pres-
ent game at Rugby, making the dullest and
worst fought match a pretty sight. Now each
house has its own uniform of cap and jersey, of
some lively color : but at the time we are speak-
ing of, plush caps have not yet come in, or
uniforms of any sort, except the School-house
white trowsers, which are abominably cold to-
day ; let us get to work, bare-headed and girded
with our plain leather straps — but we mean busi-
ness, gentlemen.

And now that the two sides have fairly sun-
dered, and each occupies its own ground, and
we get a good look at them, what absurdity is
this ? You don’t mean to say that those fifty or
sixty boys in white trowsers, many of them quite
small, are going to play that huge mass opposite ?
Indeed I do, gentlemen ; they’re going to try, at
any rate, and won’t make such a bad fight of it
either, mark my word ; for hasn’t old Brooke
won the toss, with his lucky halfpenny, and got
choice of goals and kick-off ? The new ball you
may see lie there quite by itself, in the middle,
pointing towards the School or island goal; in
another minute it will be well on its way there.
Use that minute in remarking how the School-
house side is drilled. You will see, in the first
place, that the sixth-form boy who has the charge
of goal has spread his force (the goal-keepers) so as
to occupy the whole space behind the goal-posts,
at distances of about five yards apart ; a safe
and well-kept goal is the foundation of all good
play. Old Brooke is talking to the captain of
quarters ; and now he moves away. See how
thatyoungster spreads his men (the light brigade)
carefully over the ground, half-way between
their own goal and the body of their own play-
ers-up (the heavy brigade). These again play
in several bodies ; there is young Brooke and
the bull-dogs — mark them well — they are the
“fighting brigade,” the “die-hards,” larking
aliout at leap-frog to keep themselves warm,
and playing tricks on one another. And on
each side of old Brooke, who is now standing in
the middle of the ground and just going to kick-
off, you see a separate wing of players-up, each
with a boy of acknowledged prowess to look to
— here Warner, and there Hedge ; but over all
is old Brooke, absolute as he of Russia, but

wisely and bravely ruling over willing and wor-
shipping subjects, a true football king. . His
face is earnest and careful as he glances a last
time over his array, but full of pluck and hope,
the sort of look I hope to see in my general
when I go out to fight.

The School side is not organized in the same
way. The goal-keepers are all in lumps, any-
how and no-how ; you can’t distinguish between
the players-up and the boys in quarters, and
there is divided leadership ; but with such odds
in strength and weight it must take more than
that to hinder them from winning; and so their
leaders seem to think, for they let the players-up
manage themselves.

But now look, there is a slight move forward
of the School-house wings; a shout of “Are
you ready?” and loud affirmative reply. Old
Brooke takes half a dozen quick steps, and away
goes the ball spinning towards the School goal ;
seventy yards before it touches ground, and at
no point above twelve or fifteen feet high, a
model kick-off ; and the School-house cheer and
rush on ; the ball is returned, and they meet it
and drive it back amongst the masses of the
School already in motion. Then the two sides
clo.se, and you can see nothing for minutes but
a swaying crowd of boys, at one point violently
I agitated. That is where the ball is, and there
are the keen players to be met, and the glory
I and the hard knocks to be got : you hear the
dull thud thud of the ball, and the shouts of
“Off your side,” “Down with him,” “Put
him over,” “Bravo.” This is what we call “a
scrummage,” gentlemen, and the first scrum-
^ mage in a School-house match was no joke in
the consulship of Plancus.

But see ! it has broken ; the ball is driA'en
out on the School-house side, and a rush of the
School carries it past the School-house players-
up. “Look out in quarters,” Brooke’s and
twenty other voices ring out. No need to call,
though : the School-house captain of quarters
has caught it on the bound, dodges the fore-
most School boys who are heading the rush,
and sends it back with a good drop-kick well
into the enemy’s country. And then follows
rush upon rush, and scrummage upon scrum-
mage, the ball now driven through into the
School-house quarters, and now into the School
' goal ; for the School-house have not lost the
advantage which the kick-off and a slight wind
' gave them at the outset, and are slightly “pen-

* ning ” their adversaries. You say, you don't
' see much in it all; nothing but a struggling

mass of boys, and a leather ball, which seems to
excite them all to great fury, as a red rag does
' a bull. My dear sir, a battle would look much

* the same to you, except that the boys would
' be men, and the balls iron ; but a battle would

be worth your looking at, for all that, and so is
a football match. You can’t be expected to
j appreciate the delicate strokes of play, the turns
by which a game is lost and won — it takes an
old player to do that, but the broad philosophy
of football you can understand if you viU

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

Come along with me a little nearer, and let us
consider it together.

The ball has just fallen again where the two
sides are thickest, and they close rapidly around
it in a scrummage ; it must be driven through
now by force or skill, till it flies out on one side
or the other. Look how ditferently the boys
face it! Here come two of the bull-dogs,
bursting through the outsiders ; in they go,
straight to the heart of the scrummage, bent on
driving that ball out on the opposite side. That
is what they mean to do. My sons, my sons !
you are too hot ; you have gone past the ball,
and must struggle now right through the scrum-
mage, and get round and back again to your
own side, before you can be of any further use.
Here comes young Brooke ; he goes in as
straight as you, but keeps his head, and backs
and bends, holding himself still behind the ball,
and driving it furiously when he gets the chance.
Take a leaf out of his book, you young chargers.
Here come Speedicut, and Flashman, the School-
house bully, with shouts and great action.
Won’t you two come up to young Brooke, after
locking-up, by the School-house Are, with “Old
fellow, wasn’t that just a splendid scrummage
by the three trees!” But he knows you, and
so do we. You don’t really want to drive that
ball through that scrummage, chancing all hurt
for the glory of the School-house — but to make
us think that’s what you want — a vastlv ditfer-
ent thing; and fellows of your kidney will never
go through more than tlie skirts of a scrum-
mage, where it’s all push and no kicking. We
respect boys who keep out of it, and don’t sham
going in ; but you — we had rather not say what
we think of you.

Then the boys who are bending and watch-
ing on the outside, mark them — they are most
useful players, the dodgers; who seize on the
hall the moment it rolls out from amongst the
chargors, and away with it across to the oppo-
site goal ; they seldom go into the scrummage,
but must have more coolness than the cliargers :
as endless as are boys’ characters, so are their
ways of facing or not facing a scrummage at
football.

Three-quarters of an hour are gone; first
w’inds are failing, and weight and numbers be-
ginning to tell. Yard by yard the School-house
have been driven back, contesting every inch
of ground. The bull-dogs are the color of
mother earth from shoulder to ankle, except
young Brooke, who has a marvellous knack of
keeping his legs. The School-house ai’e being
penned in their turn, and now the ball is behind
their goal, under the Doctor’s wall. The Doctor
and some of his family are there looking on,
and seem as anxious as any boy for the success
of the School-house. We get a minute’s breath-
ing-time before old Brooke kicks out, and he
gives the word to play strongly for touch, by
the three trees. Away goes the ball, and the
bull-dogs after it, and in another minute there
is a shout of “In touch,” “ Our ball.” Now’s
your time, old Brooke, while your men are still ]

fresh. He stands with the ball in his hand,
while the two sides form in deep lines opposite
one another : he must strike it straight out be-
tween them. Tlie lines are thickest close to
him, but young Brooke and two or three of his
men are shifting up farther, where the opposite
line is weak. Old Brooke strikes it out straight
and strong, and it falls opposite his brother.
Hurrah! that rush has taken it right through
the School line, and away past the three trees,
far into their quarters, and young Brooke and
the bull-dogs are close upon it. The School
leaders rush back, shouting “Look out in goal !”
and strain every nerve to catch him, but they
are after the fleetest foot in Rugby. Tliere
they go straight for the School goal-posts, quar-
ters scattering before them. One after another
the bull-dogs go down, but young Brooke holds
on. “He is down.” No! a long stagger, but
the danger is past; that was the shock of
Crew, the most dangerous of dodgers. And
now he is close to the School goal, the ball not
three yards before him. There is a hurried
rush of the School fags to the spot, but no one
throws himself on the ball, the only chance,
and young Brooke has touched it right under
the School goal-posts.

The School leaders come up furious, and ad-
minister toco to the wretched fags nearest at
hand ; they may well be angry, for it is all
Lombard-street to a china orange that the
School-house kick a goal with the ball touched
in such a good place. Old Brooke of course
will kick it out, but who shall catch and place
it? Call Crab Jones. Here he comes, saun-
tering along with a straw in his mouth, the
queerest, coolest fish in Rugby: if he were
tumbled into the moon this minute, he would
just pick himself up without taking his hands
out of his pockets or turning a hair. But it is
a moment when the boldest charger’s heart beats
quick. Old Brooke stands with the ball under
his arm motioning the School back ; he will
not kick-out till they are all in goal, behind the
posts ; they are all edging forward, inch by
inch, to get nearer for the rush at Crab Jones,
who stands there in front of old Brooke to
catch the ball. If they can reach and destroy
him before he catches, the danger is over ; and
with one and the same rush they will carry it
right away to the School-house goal. Fond
hope! it is kicked out and caught beautifully.
Crab strikes his heel into the ground, to mark
the spot where the ball was caught, beyond
which the School line may not advance ; but
there they stand, five deep, ready to rush the
moment the ball touches the ground. Take
plenty of room ! don’t give the rush a chance
of reaching you! place it true and steady!
Trust Crab Jones — he has made a small hole
with his heel for the ball to lie on, by which he
is resting on one knee, with his eye on old
Brooke. “Now!” Crab places the ball at the
w'ord, old Brooke kicks, and it rises slowly and
truly as the School rush forward.

! Then a moment’s pause, while both sides look

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

up at the spinning ball. There it flies, straight
between the two posts, some live feet above the
cross-bar, an unquestioned goal ; and a shout of
real genuine joy rings out from the School-house
players-up, and a faint echo of it comes over
the close from the goal-keepers under the Doc-
tor’s wall. A goal in the first hour — such a
thing hasn’t been done in the School-house
match these five years.

“Over!” is the cry: the two sides change
goals, and the School-house goal-keepers come
threading their way across through the masses
of the School ; the most openly triumphant of
them, amongst whom is Tom, a School-house
boy of two hours’ standing, getting their ears
boxed in the transit. Tom indeed is excited
beyond measure, and it is all the sixth-form
boy, kindest and safest of goal-keepers, has been
able to do, to keep him from rusliing out when-
ever the ball has been near their goal. So he
holds him by his side, and instructs him in the
science of touching.

At this moment Griffith, the itinerant vender
of oranges from Hill Morton, enters the close
with his heavy baskets ; there is a rush of small
boys upon' the little pale-faced man, the two
sides mingling together, subdued by the great
Goddess Thirst, like the English and French by
the streams in the Pyrenees. The leaders are
past oranges and apples, but some of them visit
their coats, and apply innocent-looking ginger-
beer bottles to their mouths. It is no ginger-
beer though, I fear, and will do you no good.
One short mad rush, and then a stitch in the
side, and no more honest play; that’s what
comes of those bottles.

But now Griffith’s baskets are empty, the
ball is placed again midway, and the School are
going to kick off. Their leaders have sent their
lumber into goal, and rated the rest soundly,
and one hundred and twenty picked players-up
are there, bent on retrieving the game. They
are to keep the ball in front of the School-house
goal, and then to drive it in by sheer strength
and weight. They mean heavy play and no
mistake, and so old Brooke sees; and places
Crab Jones in quarters just before the goal, with
four or five picked players, who are to keep the
ball away to the sides, where a try at goal, if
obtained, will be less dangerous than in front.
He himself, and Warner and Hedge, who have
saved themselves till now, will lead the charges.

“Are you ready?” “Yes.” And away
comes the ball kicked high in the air, to give
the School time to rush on and catch it as it
falls. And here they are amongst us. Meet
them like Englishmen, you School-house boys,
and charge them home. Now is the time to
show what mettle is in you — and there shall be
a warm seat by the hall fire, and honor, and
lots of bottled beer to-night, for him who does
his duty in the next half-hour. And they are
well met. Again and again the cloud of their
players-up gathers before our goal, and comes
threatening on, and Warner or Hedge, with
young Brooke and the relics of the bull-dogs,

break through and carry the hall back : and
old Brooke ranges the field like Job’s war-
horse ; the thickest scrummage parts asunder
before his rush, like the waves before a clipper’s
bows ; his cheery voice rings over the field, and
his eye is everywhere. And if these miss the
ball, and it rolls dangerously in front of our
goal. Crab Jones and his men have seized it
and sent it away towards the sides with the un-
erring drop-kick. This is worth living for ; the
whole sum of school-boy existence gathered up
into one straining, struggling half-hour, a half-
hour worth a year of common life.

The quarter to five has struck, and the play
slackens for a minute before goal ; but there is
Crew, the artful dodger, driving the ball in be-
hind our goal, on the island side, where our
quarters are weakest. Is there no one to meet
him ? Yes ! look at little East ! the ball is just
at equal distances between the two, and they
rush together, the young man of seventeen and
the boy of twelve, and kick it at the same mo-
ment. Crew passes on without a stagger ; East
is hurled forward by the shock, and plunges on
his shoulder, as if he would bury himself in the
ground ; but the ball rises straight into the air,
and falls behind Crew’s back, while the “bravos”
of the School-house attest the pluckiest charge
of all that hard-fought day. Warner picks East
up lame and half-stunned, and he hobbles back
into goal, conscious of having played the man.

And now the last minutes are come, and the
School gather for their last rush every boy of
the hundred and twenty who has a run left in
him. Reckless of the defense of their own goal,
on they come across the level big-side ground,
the ball well down amongst them, straight for
our goal, like the column of the Old Guard up
the slope at Waterloo. All former charges
have been child’s play to this. Warner and
Hedge have met them, but still on they come.
The bull-dogs rush in for the last time ; they are
hurled over or carried back, striving hand, foot,
and eyelids. Old Brooke comes sweeping round
the skirts of the play, and, turning short round,
picks out the very heart of the scrummage, and
plunges in. It wavers for a moment — he has
the ball! No, it has passed him, and his voice
rings out clear over the advancing tide, “Look
out in goal.” Crab Jones catches it for a mo-
ment ; but before he can kick, the rush is upon
him and passes over him ; and he picks himself
up behind them with his straw in his mouth, a
little dirtier, but as cool as ever.

The ball rolls slowly in behind the School-
house goal not three yards in front of a dozen
of the biggest School players-up.

There stand the School-house prrepostor, safest
of goal-keepers, and Tom Brown by his side, who
has learned his trade by this time. Now is your
time, Tom. The blood of all the Browns is up,
and the two rush in together, and throw them-
selves on the ball, under the very feet of the ad-
vancing column ; the praepostor on his hands
and knees arching his back, and Tom all along
on his face. Over them tojiple the leaders of

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

the rush, shooting over the back of the prtepos-
tor, but falling flat on Tom, and knocking all
the wind out of his small carcass, “ Our ball,”
says the pra;postor, rising with his prize, “but
get up there, there’s a little fellow under you.”
They are hauled and roll off" him, and Tom is
discovered a motionless body.

Old Brooke picks him up. “ Stand back,
give him air,” he says ; and then feeling his
limbs, adds, “No bones broken. How do you

feel, young un ?” “Ilah-hah,” gasps Tom as
his wind comes back, “pretty well, thank you
— all right.”

“ Who is he ?” says Brooke. “ Oh, it’s Brown,
he’s a new boy ; I know him,” says East, com-
ing up. “Well, he is a plucky youngster, and
will make a player,” says Brooke,

And five o’clock strikes. “No side ” is call-
ed, and the first day of the School-house match
is over.

tom’s fiest exploit at footeall.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

CHAPTER VI.

AFTER THE MATCH.

“ — Some food we liad.” — Siiakspeae3.

’Er TToTor I'Mi. — TheOCB. Id.

As the boys scattered away from tlm ground,
and East, leaning on Tom’s arm and limping
along, \yas beginning to consider what luxury
they should go and buy for tea to celebrate that
glorious victory, the two Brookes came striding
by. Old Brooke caught sight of East and stop-
ped ; put his hand kindly on his shoulder and
said, “Bravo, youngster, you played famously;
not much the matter, I hope?”

“No, nothing at all,” said East, “ only a lit-
tle twist from that charge.”

“Well, mind and get all right for next Satur-
day;” and the leader passed on, leaving East
better for those few words than all the opodel-
doc in England would have made him, and
Tom ready to give one of his ears for as much
notice. Ah ! light words of those whom we
love and honor, what a power ye are, and how
carelessly wielded by those who can use you !
Surely for these things also God will ask an
account.

“Tea’s directly after locking-up, you see,”
said East, hobbling along as fast as he could,
“so you come along down to Sally Harrowell’s ;
that’s our School-house tuck shop — she bakes
such stunning murphies, we’ll have a penn’orth
each for tea ; come along, or they’ll all be gone.”
Tom’s new purse and money burnt in his
pocket; he wondered, as they toddled through
the quadrangle and along the street, whether
East would be insulted if he suggested further
extravagance, as he had not sufficient faith in a
pennyworth of potatoes. At last he blurted
out —

‘ ‘ I say. East, can’t we get something else be-
sides potatoes ? I’ve got lots of money, you
know.”

“ Bless us, yes, I forgot,” said East, “ you’ve
only just come. “You see all my tin’s been
gone this twelve weeks ; it hardly ever lasts be-
yond the first fortnight; and our allowances
were all stopped this morning for broken win-
dows, so I haven’t got a penny. I’ve got a tick
at Sally’s, of course ; but then I hate running
it high, you see, towards the end of the half,
’cause one has to shell out for it all directly
one comes back, and that’s a bore.”

Tom didn’t understand much of this talk, but
seized on the fact that East had no money, and
was denying himself some little pet luxury in
consequence. “ Well, what shall I buy?” said
he; “ I’m uncommon hungry.”

“I say,” said East, stopping to look at him
and rest his leg, “you’re a trump. Brown. I’ll
do the same by you next half. Let’s have a
pound of sausages, then ; that’s the best grub
for tea I know of.”

“Very well,” said Tom, as pleased as possi-
ble ; “where do they sell them ?”

“ Oh, over here, just opposite;” and they
crossed the street and walked into the cleanest

little front room of a small house, half parlor,
half shop, and bought a pound of most particu-
lar sausages ; East talking pleasantly to Mrs.
Porter while she put them in paper, and Tom
doing the paying part.

From Porter’s they adjourned to Sally Har-
rowell’s, where they found a lot of School-house
boys waiting for the roast pototoes, and relating
their own exploits in the day’s match at the top
of their voices. The street opened at once into
Sally’s kitchen, a low brick-floored room, with
large recess for fire, and chimney-corner seats.
Poor little Sally, the most good-natured and
much enduring of womankind, was bustling
about with a napkin in her hand, from her own
oven to those of the neighbors’ cottages, up the
yard at the back of the house. Stumps, her
husband, a short easy-going shoemaker, with a
beery humorous eye and ponderous calves, who
lived mostly on his wife’s earnings, stood in a
corner of the room, exchanging shots of the
roughest description of repartee with every boy
in turn. “ Stumps, you lout, you’ve had too
much beer again to-day.” “ ’Twasn’t of your
paying for, then.” — “Stump’s calves are run-
ning dow'n into his ankles ; they want to get to
grass.” “Better be doing that, than gone al-
together like yours,” etc., etc. Very poor stuff
it was, but it served to make time pass ; and
every now and then Sally arrived in the mid-
dle with a smoking tin of potatoes, which was
cleared off in a few seconds, each boy as he
seized his lot running off to the house with
“Put me down two-penn’orth, Sally;” “Put
down three-penn’orth between me and Davis,”
etc. How she ever kept the accounts so straight
as she did, in her head and on her slate, was a
perfect wonder.

East and Tom got served at last, and started
back for the School-house just as the locking-up
bell began to ring ; East on the way recounting
the life and adventures of Stumps, who was a
character. Amongst his other small avocations,
he was the hind carrier of a sedan-chair, the
last of its race, in which the Rugby ladies still
went out to tea, and in which, when he was
fairly harnessed and carrying a load, it was the
delight of small and mischievous boys to follow
him and whip his calves. This was too much
for the temper even of Stumps, and he would
pursue his tormentors in a vindictive and apo-
plectic manner when released, but was easily
pacified by twopence to buy beer with.

The lower schoolboys of the School-house,
some fifteen in number, had tea in the lower-
fifth school, and Avere presided OA’er by the old
verger or head-porter. Each boy had a quarter
of a loaf of bread and pat of butter, and as much
tea as he pleased ; and there was scarcely one
who didn’t add to this some further luxury,
such as baked potatoes, a herring, sprats, or
something of the sort ; but few, at this period
of the half-year, could live up to a pound of
Porter’s sausages, and East was in great mag-
nificence upon the strength of theirs. He had
produced a toasting-fork from his study, and set

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

Tom to toast the sausages, while he mounted
guard over their butter and potatoes ; “ ’cause,”
as he explained, “you’re a new boy, and they’ll
play you some trick and get our butter, but you
can toast just as well as I.” So Tom, in the
midst of three or four more urchins similarly
employed, toasted his face and the sausages at
the same time before the huge fire, till the lat-
ter cracked, when East from his watch-tower
shouted that they were done ; and then the feast
proceeded, and the festive cups of tea were filled
4

and emptied, and Tom imparted of the sausages
in small bits to many neighbors, and thought
he had never tasted such good potatoes or seen
such jolly boys. Thej' on their parts waived
all ceremony, and pegged away at the sausages
and potatoes, and, remembering Tom’s per-
formance in goal, voted East’s new crony a
brick. After tea, and while the things were
being cleared away, they gathered round the fire,
and the talk on the match still went on ; and
those who had them to show, pulled up their

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

trowsers and showed the hacks they had received
in the good cause.

They were soon however all turned out of
the school, and East conducted Tom up to his
bedroom, that he might get on clean things and
wash himself before singing.

“What’s singing?” said Tom, taking his
head out of his basin, where he had been plung-
ing it in cold water.

“ Well, you are jolly green,” answered his
friend from a neighboring basin. “Why, the
last six Saturdays of every half, we sing, of
course : and this is the first of them. No first
lesson to do, you know, and lie in bed to-mor-
row morning.”

“ But who sings ?”

“ Why, every body, of course ; you’ll see soon
enough. We begin directly after supper, and
sing till bed-time. It ain’t such good fun now
tho’ as in the summer half, ’cause then we sing
in the little fives’ court, under the library, you
know. We take out tables, and the big boys sit
round, and drink beer; double allowance on
Saturday nights ; and we cut about the quad-
rangle between the songs, and it looks like a
lot of robbers in a cave. And the louts come
and pound at the great gates, and we pound
back again, and shout at them. But this half
w'e only sing in the hall. Come along down to
my study.”

Their principal employment in the study was
to clear out East’s table, removing the drawers
and ornaments and tablecloth : for he lived in
the bottom passage, and his table was in requisi-
tion for the singing.

Supper came in due course at seven o’clock,
consisting of bread and cheese and beer, which
was all saved for the singing ; and directly
afterwards the fags went to work to prepare the
hall. The School-house hall, as has been said,
is a great long high room, with two large fires
on one side, and two large iron-bound tables,
one running down the middle, and the other
along the wall opposite the fire-places. Around
the upper fire the fags placed the tables in the
form of a horse-shoe, and upon them the jugs
with the Saturday night’s allowance of beer.
Then the big boys used to drop in and take
their seats, bringing with them bottled beer and
song-books ; for although they all knew the
songs by heart, it was the thing to have an cld
manuscript book descended from some departed
hero, in which they were all carefully written
out.

The sixth-form boys had not yet appeared :
so to fill up the gap, an interesting and time-
honored ceremony was gone through. Each
new boy was placed on the table in turn, and
made to sing a solo, under the penalty of drink-
ing a large mug of salt and water if he resisted
or broke down. However, the new boys all
sing like nightingales to-night, and the salt
water is not in requisition ; Tom, as his part,
performing the old west-country song of “The
Leather Bottel ” with considerable applause.
And at the half-hour down come the sixth and

fifth form boys, and take their places at the ta-
bles, which are filled up by the next biggest
boys ; the rest, for whom there is no room at
the table, standing round outside.

The glasses and mugs are filled, and then the
fugle-man strikes up the old sea song —

“A wet sheet and a flowing sen.

And a wind that follows last,” etc.

which is the invariable first song in the School-
house, and all the seventy voices join in, not
mindful of harmony, but bent on noise, which
they attain decidedly, but the general effect
isn’t bad. And then follow the “British
Grenadiers,” “Billy Taylor,” “The Siege of
Seringapatam,” “Three Jolly Post-boys,” and
other vociferous songs in rapid succession, in-
cluding the “ Chesapeake and Shannon,” a song
lately introduced in honor of old Brooke ; and
when they come to the words —

”■ Brave Broke he waved his sword, ciying, Now, my lads,

aboard.

And we’ll stop their playing Yandee-doodle-dandy oh !”
you expect the roof to come down. The sixth
and fifth know that “ brave Broke ” of the Shan- ’
non was no sort of relation to our old Brooke.
The fourth form are uncertain in their belief,
but for the most part hold that old Brooke was
a midshipman then on board his uncle’s ship.
And the lower school never doubt for a mo-
ment that it was our old Brooke who led the
boarders, in what capacity they care not a straw.
During the pauses the bottled-beer corks fly
rapidly, and the talk is fast and merry, and the
big boys, at least all of them who have a fellow-
feeling for dry throats, hand their mugs over
their shoulders to be empied by the small ones
who stand round behind.

Then Warner, the head of the house, gets up
and wants to speak, but he can’t, for every boy
knows what’s coming ; and the big boys who sit
at the tables pound them and cheer ; and the
small boys who stand behind pound one another,
and cheer, and rush about the hall cheering.
Then silence being made, Warner reminds them
of the old School-house custom of drinking the
healths, on the first night of singing, of those
who are going to leave at the end of the half.

“ He sees that they know what he is going to
say already — (loud cheers) — and so won’t keep
them, but only ask them to treat the toast as it
deserves. It is the head of the eleven, the head
of big-side football, their leader on this glorious
day — Pater Brooke ! ”

And away goes the pounding and cheering
again, becoming deafening when old Brooke
gets on his legs : till, a table having broken
down, and a gallon or so of beer been upset, and
all throats getting dry, silence ensues, and the
hero speaks, leaning his hands on the table, and
bending a little forward. No action, no tricks
of oratory ; plain, strong, and straight, like his
play.

“Gentlemen of the School-house ! I am very
proud of the way in which you have received
my name, and I wish I could say all I should
like in return. But I know I shan’t. How-

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

ever, I’ll do the best I can to say what seems to
me ought to be said by a fellow who’s just going
to leave, and who has spent a good slice of his
life here. Eight years it is, and eight such
years as I can never hope to have again. So
now I hope you’ll all listen to me — (loud cheers
of ‘ that we will ’ — for I’m going to talk serious-
ly. You’re bound to listen to me, for what’s
the use of calling me ‘ pater,’ and all that, if you
don’t piind what I say? And I’m going to talk
seriously, because I feel so. It’s a jolly time,
too, getting to the end of the half, and a goal
kicked by us first day — (tremendous applause)
--►after one of the hardest and fiercest day’s play
I can remember in eight years — (frantic shout-
ings), The School played splendidly, too, I
will say, and kept it up to the last. That last
charge of theirs would have carried away a
house. I never thought to see any thing again
of old Crab there, except little pieces, when I
saw him tumbled over by it — (laughter and
shouting, and great slapping on the back of
Jones by the boys nearest him). Well, but we
beat ’em — (cheers). Ay, but why did we beat
’em ? answer me that — (shouts of ‘ your play ’).
Nonsense ! ’Twasn’t the wind and kick-otF
either — that wouldn’t do it. ’Twasn’t because
we’ve half a dozen of the best players in the
school, as we have, I wouldn’t change Warn-
er, and Hedge, and Crab, and the young un, for
any six on their side — (violent cheers). But
half a dozen fellows can’t keep it up for two
hours against ttvo hundred. Why is it, then ?
I’ll tell you what I think. It’s because we’ve
more reliance on one another, more of a house
feeling, more fellowship than the School can
have. Each of us knows and can depend on
his next-hand man better — that’s why we beat
’em to-day. We’ve union, they’ve division —
there’s the secret — (cheers). But how’s this to
be kept up ? How’s it to be improved ? That’s
the question. For I take it, we’re all in earnest
about beating the School, whatever else we care
about. I know I’d sooner win two School-house
matches running than get the Balliol scholar-
ship any day — (frantic cheers).

“ Now, I’m as proud of the house as any one,
I believe it’s the best house in the school, out-
and-out — (cheers). But it’s a long way from
what I want to see it. First, there’s a deal of
bullying going on. I know it well. I don’t pry
about and interfere; that only makes it more
underhand, and encourages the small boys to
come to us with their fingers in their eyes tell-
ing tales, and so we should be worse off than
ever. It’s very little kindness for the sixth
to meddle generally — you youngsters, mind that.
You’ll be all the better football players for learn-
ing to stand it, and to take your own parts, and
fight it through. But depend on it, there’s noth-
ing breaks up a house like bullying. Bullies
are cowards, and one coward makes many; so
good-bye to the School-house match if bullying
gets ahead here. (Loud applause from the
small boys, who look meaningly at Flashman
and other boys at the tables.) Then there’s fud-

dling about in the public-house, and drinking
bad spirits, and punch, and such rot-gut stutt'.
That won’t make good drop-kicks or chargers
of you, take my word fi>r it. You get plenty
of good beer here, and tliat’s enough for you;
and drinking isn’t fine or manly, whatever some
of you may think of it.

“ One other tiling I must have a word about.
A lot of you think and say, for I’ve heard you,
‘There’s tliis new Doctor hasn’t been here so
long as some of us, and he’s changing all the old
customs. Rugby, and the School-house especial-
ly, are going to the dogs. Stand up for the good
old ways, and down with the Doctor !’ Now I’m
as fond of old Rugby customs and ways as any
of you, and I’ve been here longer than any of
you, and I’ll give you a word of advice in time,
for I shouldn’t like to see any of you getting
sacked. ‘ Down with the Doctor’ ’s easier said
than done. You’ll find him pretty tight on his
perch, I take it, and an awkwardish customer to
handle in that line. Besides, now, what customs
has he put down ? There was the good old cus-
tom of taking the linchpins out of the farmers’
and bagmen’s gigs at the fairs, and a cowardly
blackguard custom it was. We all know what
came of it, and no wonder the Doctor objected
to it. But, come now, any of you, name a cus-
tom that he has put down.”

“The hounds,” calls out a fifth-form boy,
clad in a green cutaway with brass buttons and
cord trowsers, the leader of the sporting interest,
and reputed a great rider and keen hand gener-
ally.

“ Well, we had six or seven mangy harriers
and beagles belonging to the house. I’ll allow,
and had had them for years, and that the Doctor
put them down. But what good ever came of
them ? Only rows with all the keepers for ten
miles round ; and big-side Hare and Hounds is
better fun ten times over. What else?”

No answer.

“Well, I won’t go on. Think it over for
yourselves : you’ll find, I believe, that he don’t
meddle with any one that’s worth keeping.
And mind now, I say again, look out for squalls,
if you will go your own way, and that way ain’t
the Doctor’s, for it'll lead to grief. You all
know that I’m not the fellow to back a master
through thick and thin. If I saw him stopping
football, or cricket, or bathing, or sparring, I’d
be as ready as any fellow to stand up about it.
But he don’t — he encourages them ; didn’t you
see him out to-day for half an hour watching
us ? — (loud cheers for the Doctor) — and he’s a
strong true man, and a wise one too, and a pub-
lic-school man too.” (Cheers.) “And so
let’s stick to him, and talk no more rot, and
drink his health as the head of the house.
(Loud cheers.) And now I’ve done blowing up,
and very glad I am to have done. But it’s a
solemn thing to be thinking of leaving a place
which one has lived in and loved for eight
years ; and if one can say a word for the good
of the old house at such a time, why, it should
be said, whether bitter or sweet. If I hadn’t

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

been proud of the house and you — ay, no one
knows how proud — I shouldn’t he blowing you
up. And now let’s get to singing. But before
I sit down I must give you a toast to be drunk
with three-times-three and all the honors. It’s
a toast which I hope every one of us, wherever
he may go hereafter, will never fail to drink
when he thinks of the brave bright days of his
boyhood. It’s a toast which should bind us all
together, and to those who’ve gone before, and
who’ll come after us here. It is the dear old
School-house — the best house of the best school
in England!”

My dear boys, old and young, you who have
belonged, or do belong, to other schools and
other houses, don’t begin throwing my poor lit-
tle book about the room, and abusing me and
it, and vowing you’ll read no more when you
get to this point. I allow you’ve provocation
for it. But, come now— would you, any of you,
give a fig for a fellow who didn’t believe in, and
stand up for, his own house and his own school ?
You know you wouldn’t. Then don’t object to
me cracking up the old School-house, Rugby.
Haven’t I a right to do it, when I’m taking all
the trouble of writing this true history for all of
your benefits? If you ain’t satisfied, go and
write the history of your own houses in your
own times, and say all you know for your own
schools and houses, provided it’s true, and I’ll
read it without abusing you.

The last few words hit the audience in their
weakest place; they had been not altogether
enthusiastic at several parts of old Brooke’s
speech ; but “ the best house of the best school
in England” was too much for them all, and
carried even the sporting and drinking interests
off their legs into rapturous applause, and (it is
to be hoped) resolutions to lead a new life nnd
remember old Brooke’s words ; which however
they didn’t altogether do, as will appear hereaf-
ter.

But it required all old Brooke’s popularity to
carry down parts of his speech ; especially that
relating to the Doctor. ■ For there are no such
bigoted holders by established forms and cus-
toms, be they never so foolish or meaningless,
as English schoolboys, at least as the schoolboy
of our generation. We magnified into heroes
every boy who had left, and looked upon him
with awe and reverence, when he revisited the
place a year or so afterwards, on his wav to or
from Oxford or Cambridge ; and happy was the
boy who remembered him, and sure of an au-
dience as he expounded what he used to do and
say, though it were sad enough stuff to make
angels, not to say head-masters weep.

We looked upon every trumpery little cus-
tom and habit which had obtained in the school
as though it had been a law of the Medes and
Persians, and regarded the infringement or va-
riation of it as a sort of sacrilege. And the
Doctor, than whom no man or boy had a
stronger liking for old school customs, w'hich
Avere good and sensible, had, as has already
been hinted, come into most decided collision

with several which were neither the one nor
the other. And as old Brooke had said, when
he came into collision with boys or customs,
there Avas nothing for them but to gh-e in or
take themselves off’; because Avhat he said had
to be done, and no mistake about it. And this
Avas beginning to be pretty clearly understood ;
the boys felt that there was a strong man over
them, Avho would have things his OAvn Avay ;
and hadn’t yet learned that he Avas a Avise and
loving man also. His personal character and
influence had not had time to make itself felt,
except by a very few of the bigger boys Avith
whom he came more directly in contact ; and
he was looked upon Avith great fear and dislike
by the great majority even of his own house.
For he had found School and School-house in a
state of monstrous license and misrule, and Avas
still employed in the necessary but unpopular
Avork of setting up order Avith a strong hand.

However, as has been said, old Brooke tri-
umphed, and the boys cheered him, and then
the Doctor. And then more songs came, and
the healths of the other boys about to leave,
Avho each made a speech, one flowery, another
maudlin, a third prosy, and so on, which are
not necessary to be here recorded.

Half-past nine struck in the middle of the
performance of “ Auld Lang Syne,” a most ob-
streperous proceeding ; during Avhich there Avas
an immense amount of standing Avith one foot
on the table, knocking mugs together and shak-
ing hands, Avithout Avhich accompaniments it
seems ‘impossible for the youth of Britain to
take part in that famous old song. The under-
porter of the School-house entered during the
performance, bearing Aa'C or six long Avooden
candlesticks, Avith lighted dips in them, Avhich
he proceeded to stick into their holes in such
part of the great tables as he could get at; and
then stood outside the ring till the end of the
song, AA'hen he Avas hailed with shouts.

“Bill, you old muff, the half-hour hasn’t
struck.”

“ Here, Bill, drink some cocktail,” “ Sing us
a song, old boy,” “ Don’t you wish you may get
the table?” Bill drank the proffered cocktail
not unwillingly, and putting doAvn the empty
glass, remonstrated, “Noav, gentlemen, there’s
only ten minutes to prayers, and Ave must get
the hall straight.”

Shouts of “No, no!” and a violent effort to
strike up “Billy Taylor” for the third time.
Bill looked appealingly to old Brooke, Avho got
up and stopped the noise. “ Noav then, lend a
hand, you youngsters, and get the tables back,
clear aAvay the jugs and glasses. Bill’s right.
Open the AvindoAvs, Warner.” The boy ad-
dressed, Avho sat by the long ropes, proceeded
to jiull up the great Avindows, and let in a clear
fresh rush of night air, Avhich made the candles
flicker and gutter, and the fires roar. The cir-
cle broke up, each collaring his OAvn jug, glass,
and song-book ; Bill pounced on the big table,
and began to rattle it aAv.ay to its place outside
the buttery-door. The loAvcr-passage boys cur-

TOM BROWN’S

ried off their small tables, aided by their friends,
while above all, standing on the great hall-ta-
ble, a knot of untiring sons of harmony made
night doleful by a prolonged performance of
'‘God save the King.” His Majesty King
William IV. then reigned over us, a monarch
deservedly popular amongst the boys addicted
to melod}', to whom he was chiefly known from
the beginning of that excellent, if slightly vul-
gar song in which they much delighted —

“Come, neighbors all, both great and small,
Perform your duties here,

And loudly sing ‘live Billy our king,’

For bating the tax upon beer.”

Others of the more learned in songs also cele-
brated his praises in a sort of ballad, which I
take to have been written by some Irish loyalist.
I have forgotten all but the chorus, which ran —

“God save our good King William, be his name forever
blest,

lie's the father of all his people, and the guardian of all
the rest."

In troth we were loyal subjects in those days, in
a rough way. I trust that our successors make
as much of her present Majesty, and, having re-
gard to the greater refinement of the times, have
adopted or written other songs equally hearty,
but more civilized, in her honor.

Then the quarter to ten struck, and the
prayer-bell rang. The sixth and fifth form
boys ranged themselves in their school order
along the wall, on either side of the great fires,
the middle fifth and upper-school boys round the
long table in the middle of the hall, and the
lower-school boys round the upper part of the
second long table, which ran down the side of
the hall farthest from the fires. Here Tom
found himself at the bottom of all, in a state of
mind and body not at all fit for prayers, as he
thought; and so tried hard to make himself
serious, but couldn’t, for the life of him, do any
thing but repeat in his head the choruses of
some of the songs, and stare at all the boys op-
posite, wondering at the brilliancy of their waist-
coats, and speculating what sort of fellows they
were. The steps of the head-porter are heard
on the stairs, and a light gleams at the door.
“Hush!” from the fifth form boys who stand
there, and then in strides the Doctor, cap on
head, book in one hand, and gathering up his
gown in the other. He walks up the middle,
and takes his post by Warner, who begins call-
ing over the names. The Doctor takes no no-
tice of any thing, but quietly turns over his book,
and finds tlie place, and then stands, cap in
hand, and finger in book, looking straight before
his nose. He knows better than any one when
to look, and when to see nothing; to-night is
singing night, and there’s been lots of noise,
and no harm done ; nothing but beer drunk,
and nobody the worse for it ; though some of
them do look hot and excited. So the Doctor
sees nothing, but fascinates Tom in a horrible
manner, as he stands there, and reads out the
Psalm in that deep, ringing, searching voice of
his. Prayers are over, and Tom still stares
open-mouthed after the Doctor’s retiring figure.

SCHOOL DAYS. 53

when he feels a pull at his sleeve, and turning
round, sees East.

“I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?”

“ No,” said Tom ; “ why ? ’

“’Cause there’ll be tossing to-night, most
likely, before the sixth come up to bed. So if
you funk, you just come along and hide, or else
they’ll catch you and toss you. ’'\

“Were you ever tossed ? Do^it hurt?’’ in-
quired Tom.

“Oh yes, bless you, a dozen times,” said
East, as he hobbled along by Tom’s side up
stairs. “It don’t hurt unless you fall on the
floor. But most fellows don’t like it.”

They stopped at the fireplace in the top pas-
sage, where were a crowd of small boys whisper-
ing together, and evidently unwilling to go up
into the bed-rooms. In a minute, however, a
study door opened, and a sixth-form boy came
out, and off they all scuttled up the stairs, and
then noiselessly dispersed to their different
rooms. Tom’s heart beat rather quick as he
and East reached their room, but he had made
up his mind. “I shan’t hide. East,” said he.

“Very well, old fellow,” replied East, evi-
dently pleased; “no more shall I — they’ll be
here for us directly.”

The room was a great big one with a dozen
beds in it, but not a boy that Tom could see, ex-
cept East and himself. East pulled off his coat
and waistcoat, and then sat on the bottom of
his bed, whistling, and pulling off his boots ;
Tom followed his example.

A noise and steps are heard in the passage,
the door opens, and in rush four or five great
fifth-form boys, headed by Flashman in his
glory.

Tom and East slept in the fiirther corner of
the room, and were not seen at first.

“Gone to ground, eh?” roared Flashman;
“push ’em out then, boys! look under the
beds and he pulled up the little white curtain
of the one nearest him. “ Who-o-op,” he roar-
ed, pulling away at the leg of a small boy, who
held on tight to the leg of the bed, and sung out
lustily for mercy.

“Here, lend a hand, one of you, and help
me pull out this young howling brute. Hold
your tongue, sir, or I’ll kill you.”

“Oh, please, Flashman, please. Walker,
don’t toss me ! I’ll fag for you. I’ll do any
thing, only don’t toss me.” •

“You bo hanged,” said Flashman, lugging

the wretched boy along, “ ’twon’t hurt you,

you ! Come along, boys, here he is.”

“I say, Flashey,”sung out another of the big
boys, “drop that; you heard what old I’ater
Brooke said to-night. I’ll be hanged if we’ll
toss any one against their will — no more bully-
ing. Let him go, I say.”

Flashman, with an oath and a kick, released
his prey, who rushed headlong under his bed
again, for fear they should change their minds,
and crept along underneath the other beds, till
he got under that of the sixth-form boy, which
he knew they daren’t disturb.

TOM BROWN S SCHOOL DAYS.

“There’s plenty of youngsters don’t care about
it,” said Walker. “Here, here’s Scud East —
you’ll be tossed, won’t you, young un ?” Scud
was East’s nickname, or Black, as w'e called it,
gained by his fleetness of foot.

“ Yes,” said East, “ if you like, only mind my
foot.”

“And here’s another who didn’t hide. Hul-
lo ! new boy ; what’s your name, sir ?”

“ Brown.”

“ Well, Whitey Brown, you don’t mind being
tossed?”

“No,” said Tom, setting his teeth.

“ Come along then, boys,” sung out Walker,
and away they all went, carrying along Tom
and East, to the intense relief of four or five
other small boys, who crept out from under the
beds and behind them.

“ What a trump Scud is!” said one. “They
won’t come back here now.”

“And that new boy, too ; he must be a good
plucked one.”

“Ah! Avait till he has been tossed on to the
floor ; see how he’ll like it then !”

Meantime the procession went down the pas-
sage to No. 7, the largest room, and the scene
of the tossing, in the middle of which was a
great open space. Here they joined other par-
ties of the bigger boys, each with a captive or
tw'o, some willing to be tossed, some sullen, and
some frightened to death. At Walker’s sug-
gestion all who were afraid Avere let off, in hon-
or of Pater Brooke’s speech.

Then a dozen big boys seized hold of a blank-
et, dragged from one of the beds. “In Avith
Scud, quick, there’s no time to lose.” East was
chucked into the blanket. ‘ ‘ Once, twice, thrice,
and aAA^ay ;” up he Avent like a shuttlecock, but
not quite up to the ceiling.

“Noav, boys, Avith a Avill,” cried Walker,
“once, tAvice, thrice, and away!’’ This time
he Avent clean up, and kept himself from touch-
ing the ceiling Avith his hand, and so again a
third time, Avhen he Avas turned out, and up
Avent another boy. And then came Tom’s turn.
He lay quite still, by East’s advice, and didn’t dis-
like the “ once, tAvice, thrice but the “aAvay ”
Avasn’t so pleasant. They Avere in good wind
noAv, and sent him slap up to the ceiling first time,
against Avhich his knees came rather sharply.
But the moment’s pause before descending Avas
the rub, the feeling of utter helplessness, and
of leaA'ing his Avhole inside behind him stick-
ing to the ceiling. Tom Avas A’ery near shouting
to be set doAvn, Avhen he found liimself back in
the blanket, but thought of East, and didn’t ;
and so took his three tosses Avithout a kick or a
cry, and Avas called a young trump for his pains.

He and East, having earned it, stood noAv
looking on. No catastrophe happened, as all
the captives w ere cool hands, and didn’t strug-
gle. This didn’t suit Elashman. What your
real bully likes in tossing, is Avhen the boys kick
and struggle, or hold on to one side of the blank-
et, and so get pitehed bodily on to the floor; it’s
no fun to him when no one is hurt or frightened. .

“Let’s toss tAvo of them together. Walker,”
suggested he. “ W’^hat a cursed bully you are,
Plashey ! ” rejoined the other. ‘ ‘ Up Avit'h anoth-
er one.”

And so no tAvo boys Avere tossed together, the
peculiar hardship of which is, that it’s too
much for human nature to lie still then and
share troubles ; and so the Avretched pair of
small boys struggle in the air Avhich shall fall
atop in the descent, to the no small risk of both
falling out of the blanket, and the huge delight
of brutes like Elashman.

But now there’s a cry that the praepostor of
the room is coming ; so the tossing stops, and
all scatter to their different rooms : and Tom is
left to turn in, with the first day’s experience of
a public school to meditate upon.

CHAPTER VII.

SETTLING TO THE COLLAK.

“Says Giles, “Tis mortal hard to go,

But if so he’s I must:

I means to follow arter he
As goes hisself the fust.’ ” — Ballad.

Eveey body, I suppose, knoAvs the dreamy
delicious state in Avhich one lies, half asleep,
half aAvake, while consciousness begins to re-
turn, after a sound night’s rest in a new place
Avhich Ave are glad to be in, folloAving upon a day
of unAvonted excitement and exertion. There
are feAv pleasanter pieces of life. The Avorst of
it is that they last such a short time ; for, nurse
them as you will, by lying perfectly passive in
mind and body, you can’t make more than fiA^e
minutes or so of them. After Avhich time, the
stupid, obtrusive, Avakeful entity Avhich Ave call
“l,”as impatient as he is stiff-necked, spite of
our teeth will force himself back again, and take
possession of us doAvn to our very toes.

It AA’as in this state that Master Tom lay at
half-past seven on the morning folloAving the day
of his arrival, and from his clean little Avhite bed
Avatched the moA'ements of Bogle (the generic
name by Avhich the successive shoe-blacks of
the School-house AA'ere knoAvn), as he marched
round from bed to bed, collecting the dirty
shoes and boots, and depositing clean ones in
their places.

There he lay, half doubtful as to Avhere ex-
actly in the uniA'erse he aaes, but conscious that
he had made a step in life Avhich he had been
anxious to make. It Avas only just light as he
looked lazily out of the Avide Avindows, and saw
the tops of the great elms, and the rooks cir-
cling about, and caAving remonstrances to the
lazy ones of their commonAvealth, before start-
ing in a body for the neighboring ploughed
fields. The noise of the room-door closing be-
hind Bogle, as he made his exit Avith the shoe-
basket under his arm, roused him thoroughly,
and he sat up in bed and looked round the room.
What in the Avorld could be the matter Avith his
shoulder and loins? He felt as if he had been
severely beaten all doAvn his hack, the natural

TOM BKOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

results of his performance at his first match.
He drew up his knees and rested his chin on
them, and went over all the events of yesterday,
rejoicing in his new life, what he had seen of if,
and all that was to come.

Presently one or two of the other boys roused
themselves, and began to sit up and talk to one
another in low tones. Then East, after a roll
or two, came to an anchor also, and, nodding to
Tom, began examining his ankle.

“ What a pull,” said he, “ that it’s lie-in-bed,
for I shall be as lame as a tree, I think.”

It was Sunday morning, and Sunday lectures
liad not yet been established ; so that nothing
but breakfast intervened between bed and eleven
o’clock chapel — a gap by no means easy to fill
up : in fact, though received with the correct
amount of grumbling, the first lecture instituted
by the Doctor shortly afterwards was a great
boon to the school. It was lie-in-bed, and no
one was in a hurry to get up, especially in rooms
where the sixth-form boy was a good-tempered
fellow, as was the case in Tom’s room, and al-
lowed the small boys to talk and laugh, and do
pretty much what they pleased, so long as they
didn’t disturb him. His bed was a bigger one
than the rest, standing in the corner by the fire-
place, with a washing-stand and large basin by
the side, where he lay in state, with his white
curtains tucked in so as to form a retiring place :
an awful subject of contemplation to Tom, who
slept nearly opposite, and watched the great man
rouse himself and take a book from under his
pillow, and begin reading, leaning his head on
his hand, and turning his back to the room.
Soon, however, a noise of striving urchins arose,
and muttered encouragements from the neigh-
boring boys, of — “Go it. Tadpole!” “Now,
young Green!” “Haul away his blanket!”
“Slipper him on the hands!” Young Green
and little Hall, commonly called Tadpole, from
his great black head and thin legs, slept side by
side far away by the door, and were forever play-
ing one another tricks, which usually ended, as
on this morning, in open and violent collision :
and now, unmindful of all order and authority,
there they were each hauling away at the other’s
bedclothes with one hand, and with the other,
armed with a slipper, belaboring whatever por-
tion of the body of his adversary came within
reach.

“ Hold that noise, up in the corner!” called
out the praepostor, sitting up and looking round
his curtains ; and the Tadpole and young Green
sank down into their disordered beds, and then,
looking at his watch, added, “ Hullo, past eight!
— whose turn for hot water?”

(Where the praepostor was particular in his
ablutions, the fiigs in his room had to descend
in turn to the kitchen, and beg or steal hot water
for him ; and often the custom extended farther,
and two boys went down every morning to get
a supply for the whole room.)

“East’s and Tadpole’s,” answered the senior
fag, who kept the rota.

“ I can’t go,” said East; “I’m dead lame.”

“Well, be quick, some of you, that's all,” said
the great man, as he turned out of bed, and jait-
ting on his slippers, went out into the great
passage which runs the whole length of the bed-
rooms, to get his Sunday habiliments out of his
portmanteau.

“Let me go for you,” said Tom to East, “ I
should like it.”

“Well, thank’ee, that’s a good fellow. Just
pull on your trowsers, and take your jug and
mine. Tadpole will show you the way.”

And so Tom and the Tadpole, in night shirts
and trowsers, started off down stairs, and
through “ Thos’s hole,’’ as the little buttery,
where candles and beer and bread and cheese
were served out at night, was called ; across the
School-house court, down a long passage, and
into the kitchen ; where,after some parley with the
stalwart, handsome cook, who declared that she
had filled a dozen jugs already, they got their
hot water, and returned with all speed and great
caution. As it was, they narrowly escaped caj)-
ture by some privateers from the fifth-form rooms,
who were on the look-out for the hot-water con-
voys, and pursued them up to the very door of
their room, making them spill half their load
in the passage. “ Better than going down again
tho’,” as Tadpole remarked, “ as we should have
had to do, if those beggars had caught us.”

By the time that the calling-over bell rang, Tom
and his new comrades were all down, dressed in
their best clothes, and he had the satisfaction
of answering “here” to his name for the first
time, the praspostor of the week having put it
in at the bottom of his list. And then came
breakfast, and a saunter about the close and town
with East, whose lameness only became severe
when any fagging had to be done. And so they
whiled away the time until morning chapel.

It was a fine November morning, and the
close soon became alive with boys of all ages,
who sauntered about on the grass, or walked
round the gravel-walk, in parties of two or three.
East, still doing the cicerone, pointed out all the
remarkable characters to Tom as they passed ;
Osbert, who could throw a cricket-ball from the
little-side ground over the rook-trees to the
Doctor’s wall ; Gray, who had got the Balliol
scholarship, and, what East evidently thought
of much more importance, a half-holiday for
the School by his success ; Thorne, who had
run ten miles in two minutes over the hour ;
Black, who had held his own against the cock
of the town in the last row with the louts ; and
many more heroes, who then and there walked
about and were worshipped, all trace of whom
has long since vanished ffom the scene of their
fame ; and the fourth-form boy who reads their
names rudely cut out on the old hall tables, or
painted upon the big side-cupboard (if hall ta-
bles and big side-cupboards still exist), wonders
what manner of boys they were. It will be the
same with you who wonder, my sons, whatever
your prowess may be, in cricket, or scholarship,
or football. Two or three years, more or less,
and then the steadily advancing, blessed wtf^e

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

will pass over your names as it has passed
over ours. Nevertheless, play your games and
do your work manfully — see only that that be
done, and let the remembrance of it take care
of itself.

The chapel-bell began to ring at a quarter to
eleven, and Tom got in early and took his place
in the lowest row, and watched all the other
boys come in and take their places, filling row
after row ; and tried to construe the Greek text
which was inscribed over the door with the
slightest possible success, and wondered which of
the masters, who walked down the chapel and
took their seats in the exalted boxes at the end,
would be his lord. And then came the closing
of the doors, and the Doctor in his robes, and
the service, which, however, didn’t impress him
much, for his feeling of wonder and curiosity
was too strong. And the boy on one side of
him was scratching his name on the oak panel-
ling in front, and he couldn’t help watching to
see what the name was, and whether it was well
scratched ; and the boy on the other side went
to sleep and kept falling against him ; and on
the whole, though many boys even in that part
of the School were serious and attentive, the
general atmosphere was by no means devotion-
al ; and when he got out into the close again,
he didn’t feel at all comfortable, or as if he had
been to church.

ua. AKNOLl).

But at afternoon chapel it was quite another
thing. He had spent the time after dinner in
writing home to his mother, and so was in a
better frame of mind ; and his first curiosity
was over, and he could attend more to the serv-
ice. As the hymn after the prayers was being

sung, and the chapel was getting a little dark,
he was beginning to feel that he had been real-
ly worshipping. And then came that great
event in his, as in every Engby boy’s life of
that day — the first sermon from the Doctor.

More worthy pens than mine have described
that scene : — the oak pulpit standing out by
itself above the School seats; the tall gallant
form, the kindling eye, tlie voice, now soft as
the low notes of a flute, now clear and stirring
as the call of the light infantry bugle, of him
who stood there Sunday after Sunday, witness-
ing and pleading for his Lord, the King of right-
eousness and love and glory, with whose spirit
he was filled, and in whose power he spoke;
the long lines of young faces, rising tier above
tier down the whole length of the chapel, from
the little boy’s who had just left his mother to
the young man’s who was going out next week
into the great world rejoicing in his strength.
It was a great and solemn sight, and never more
so than at this time of the year, -when the only
lights in the chapel were in the pulpit and at
the seats of the praepostors of the week, and the
soft twilight stole over the rest of the chapel,
deepening into darkness in the high gallery be-
hind the organ.

But what was it, after all, which seized and
held these three hundred boys, dragging them
out of themselves, willing or unwilling, for twen-
ty minutes, on Sunday afternoons? True,
there always were boys scattered up and down
the School, who in heart and head were worthy
to hear and able to carry away the deepest and
wisest words there spoken. But these were a
minority always, generally a very small one,
often so small a one as to be countable on the
fingers of your hand. What was it that moved
and held us, the rest of the three hundred reck-
less, childish boys, who feared the Doctor with
all our hearts, and very little besides in heaven
or earth : who thought more of our sets in the
Scliool than of the Church of Christ, and put
the traditions of Rugby and the public opinion
of boys in our daily life above the laws of God ?
We couldn’t enter into half that we heard ; we
liadn’t the knowledge of our own hearts or the
knowledge of one another ; and little enough of
' the faith, hope, and love needed to that end.
But we listened, as all boys in their better moods
will listen (ay, and men too, for the matter of
j that), to a man whom we felt to be, with all his
I heart and soul and strength, striving against
j whatever was mean and unmanly and unright-
I eous in our little world. It was not the cold
clear voice of one giving advice and warning
from serene heights to those who were strug-
gling and sinning below, but the warm living
voice of one who was fighting for us and by our
sides, and calling on us to help him and our-
selves and one another. And so, wearily and
little by little, but surely and steadily on the
whole, was brought home to the young boy, for
the first time, the meaning of his life: tbat it
was no fool’s or sluggard s paradise into which
he had wandered by chance, but a battle-field

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

r>7

ordained from of old, where there are no spec-
tators, but the youngest must take his side, and
the stakes are life and death. And he who
roused this consciousness in them shoAved them
at the same time, by every word he spoke in tlie
pulpit, and by his whole daily life, how that Imt-
tle was to be fought ; and stood there before
them their fellow-soldier apd the captain of |
their band. The true sort of captain, too, for |
a boy’s army, one wlio had no misgivings and ,
gave no uncertain word of command, and, let
Avho Avould yield or make truce, would fight the
fight out (so every boy felt) to the last gasp and
the last drop of blood. Other sides of his char-
acter might take hold of and influence boys
here and there, but it \yas this thoroughness
and undaunted courage which more than any
thing else won Iiis way to the hearts of the great
mass of those on whom he left his mark, and
made them believe first in him, and‘then in his
Master.

It was this quality above all others which
moved such boys as our hero, who had nothing
Avhatever remai'kable about him except excess
of boyishness ; by which I mean animal life in
its fullest measure, good-nature and honest im-
pulses, hatred of injustice and meanness, and
thouglitlcssness enough to sink a three-decker.
And so, during the next two years, in which it
Avas more than doubtful Avhether he Avould get
good or evil from the School, and before any
steady purpose or principle grcAv up in him,
Avliatever his Aveek’s sins and shortcomings
might have been, he hardly ever left the chapel
on Sunday CA^enings Avithout a serious resolve to
stand by and folloAv the Doctor, and a feeling
that it Avas only coAvardice (the incarnation of
all other sins in such a boy's mind) Avhich hin-
dered him from doing so Avith all his heart.

The next day Tom Avas duly placed in the
third form, and began his lessons in a corner of
tlie big School. He found the Avork very easy,
as he had been well grounded and kneAV his
grammar by heart; and, as he had no intimate
companion to make him idle (East and his oth-
er School-house friends being in the loAver fourth,
the form above him), soon gained golden opin-
ions from his master, avIio said he was placed too
loAv, and should be put out at the end of the half-
year. So all Avent well with him in School,
and he Avrote the most flourishing letters home
to his mother, full of his OAvn success and the
unspeakable delights of a public school.

In the house, too, all w’ent Avell. Tlie end
of the half-year Avas draAving near, Avhich kept
every body in a good-humor, and the house Avas
ruled Avell and strongly by Warner and Brooke.
True, the general system Avas rough and hard,
and there Avas bullying in nooks and corners,
bad signs for the future ; but it never got far-
ther, or dared shoAv itself openly, stalking about
the passages and hall and bedrooms, and mak-
ing the life of the small boys a continual fear.

Tom, as a ncAv boy, Avas of right excused
fagging for the first month, but in his enthu-
siasm for his new life this privilege hardly

THE NIGHT FAG.

pleased him ; and East and others of his young
friends discoA'ering this, kindly alloAved hirh to
indulge his fancy, and take their turns at night-
fagging and cleaning studies. These Avere the
principal duties of the fags in the house. From
supper until nine o’clock, three fags taken in
order stood in the passages, and ansAvered any
prteposter Avho called fag, racing to the door,
the last comer having to do the Avork. This
consisted generally of going to the buttery for
beer and bread and cheese (for the great men
did not sup Avifch the rest, but had each his own
alloAvance in his study or the fifth-form room),
cleaning candlesticks and putting in ncAv can-
dles, toasting cheese, bottling beer, and carry-
ing messages about the house ; and Tom, in
the first blush of his hero-Avorship, felt it a high
privilege to receiA'e orders from, and be the
bearer of the supper of old Brooke. And be-
sides this night-AA'ork, each praepostor had three
or four fags specially allotted to him, of Avhom

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

he was supposed to bo the guide, pliilosopher,
and friend, and who in return for these good
offices had to clean out his study every morn-
ing by turns, directly after first lesson and be-
fore he returned from breakfast. And the pleas-
ure of seeing the great men’s studies, and look-
ing at their pictures, and peeping into their
books, made Tom a ready substitute for any
boy who was too lazy to do his own work. And
so he soon gained the character of a good-na-
tured willing fellow, who was ready to do a turn
for any one.

In all the games too he joined with all his
heart, and soon became well versed in all the
mysteries of football, by continual practice at
the School-house little-side, which played daily.

The only incident worth recording here, how-
ever, was his first run at Hare-and-hounds. On
the last Tuesday but one of the half-year, he was
passing through the hall after dinner, when he
was hailed with shouts from Tadpole and sever-
al other fags seated at one of the long tables,
the chorus of which was, “Come and help us
tear up scent.”

Tom approached the table in obedience to
the mysterious summons, always ready to help,
and found the party engaged in tearing up old
newspapers, copy-books, and magazines into
small pieces, with which they were filling four
large canvas bags.

“It's the turn of our house to find scent for
big-side Hare-and-hounds,” exclaimed Tadpole;
“ tear away, there’s no time to lose before call-
ing-over.”

“ I think it’s a great shame,” said another
small boy, “ to have such a hard run for the
last day.”

“ Which run is it ?” said Tadpole.

“ Oh, the Barby run, I hear,” answered the
other ; “ nine miles at least, and hard gr<fund ;
no chance of getting in at the finish, unless
you’re a first-rate scud.”

“ Well, I'm going to have a try,” said Tad-
pole ; “ it’s the last run of the half, and if a fel-
low gets in at the end, big-side stands ale and
bread and cheese, and a bowl of punch ; and
the Cock’s such a famous place for ale.”

“ I should like to try, too,” said Tom.

“ Well then, leave your waistcoat behind,
and listen at the door, after calling-over, and
you’ll hoar where the meet is.”

After calling-over, sure enough, there were
two boys at the door, calling out, “Big-side
Hare-and-hounds meet at White Hall and
Tom, having girded himself with leather strap,
and left all superfluous clothing behind, set off
for White Hall, an old gable-ended house some
quarter of a mile from the town, with East,
wliom he had persuaded to join, notwithstand-
ing his prophecy that they could never get in,
as it was the hardest run of the year.

At the meet they found some forty or fifty
boys, and Tom felt sure, from having seen many
of them run at football, that he and East were
more likely to get in than they.

After a few minutes’ waiting, two well-known

I runners, chosen for the hares, buckled on the
: four bags filled with scent, compared their watch-
es with those of Young Brooke and Thorne, and
started off at a long slingijig trot across the
I fields in the direction of Barby.

Then the hounds clustered round Thorne,

' who explained shortly, “ They’re to have six
j minutes’ law. We run into the Cock, and ev-
ery one who comes in within a quarter of an
hour of the hares’ll be counted, if he has been
round Barby Church.” Then came a minute’s
pause or so, and then the watches are pocketed,
and the pack is led through the gate-way into
the field which the hares had first crossed. Here
they break into a trot, scattering over the field
to find the first traces of the scent which the
hares throw out as they go along. The old
hounds make straight for the likely points, and
in a minute a cry of “forward” comes from
one of them, and the whole pack quickening
their pace make for the spot, while the boy who
hit the scent first, and the two or three nearest
to him, are over the first fence, and making play
along the hedge-row in the long grass-field be-
yond. The rest of the pack rush at the gap al-
ready made, and scramble through, jostling one
another. “Forward” again, before they are
half through ; the pace quickens into a sharp
run, the tail hounds all straining to get up to
the lucky leaders. They are gallant hares, and
the scent lies thick right across another mead-
ow and into a ploughed field, where the pace
begins to tell ; then over a good wattle with a
ditch on the other side, and down a large pas-
ture studded with old thorns, which slopes down
to the first brook ; the great Leicestershire sheep
charge away across the field as the pack comes
racing down the slope. The brook is a small
one, and the scent lies right ahead up the oppo-
site slope, and as thick as ever ; not a turn or
a check to favor the tail hounds, who strain on,
now trailing in a long line, many a youngster
beginning to drag his legs heavily, and feel his
heart beat like a hammer, and the bad plucked
ones thinking that after all it isn’t worth while
to keep it up.

Tom, East, and the Tadpole had a good start,

I and are well up for such young hands, and, af-
j ter rising the slope and crossing the next field,
find themselves up with the leading hounds,
who have overrun the scent, and are trying
back; they have come a mile and a half in
about eleven minutes, a pace which shows that
it is the last day. About twenty-five of th,e
original starters only show here, the rest having
already given in ; the leaders are busy making
casts into the fields on the left and right, and
the others get their second winds.

Then comes the cry of “ forward” again, from
Young Brooke, from the extreme left, and the
pack settles down to work again steadily and
doggedly, the whole keeping pretty well togctli-
er. The scent, though still good, is not so
thick ; there is no need of that, for in this part
of the run every one knows the line which must
be taken, and so there are no casts to be made,

TOxM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

but good downright running and fencing to be
done. All who are now up mean coming in,
and they come to the foot of Barby Hill without
losing more than two or three more of the pack.
This last straight two miles and a half is always
a vantage-ground for the hounds, and the hares
know it well ; they are generally viewed on the
side of Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the look-
out for them to-day. But not a sign of them
appears, so now will be the hard work for the
hounds, and there is nothing for it but to cast
about for the scent, for it is now the hares’ turn,
and they may baffle the pack dreadfully in the
next two miles.

tie cunning or not, so you should stick to those
crafty hounds who keep edging away to the
right, and not follow a prodigal like Young
Brooke, whose legs are twice as long as yours
and of cast-iron, wholly indifferent to one or
two miles more or less. However, they strug-
gle after him, sobbing and plunging along, Tom
and East pretty close, and Tadpole, whose big
head begins to pull him down, some thirty yards
behind.

Now comes a brook, with stiff clay banks,
from which they can hardly drag their legs, and
they hear faint cries for help from the wretched
Tadpole, who has fairly stuck fast. But they

tadpole’s mishap.

Ill fares it now with our youngsters that they
are School-house boys, and so follow Young
Brooke, for he takes the wide casts round to the
left, conscious of his own powers, and loving the
hard work. For if you would consider for a
moment, you small boys, you would remember
that the Cock, where the run ends, and the good
ale will be going, lies far out to the right on the
Dunchurch road, so that every cast you take to
the left is so much extra work. And at this
stage of-the run, when the evening is closing in
already, no one remarks whether you run a iit-

have too little run left in themselves to pull up
for their own brothers. Three fields more; and
another check, and then “forward” called away
to the extreme right.

The two boys’ souls die within them ; they
can never do it. Young Brooke thinks so too,
and says kindly, “You’ll cross a lane after next
field, keep down it, and you’ll hit the Dunchurch
road below the Cock,” and then steams away
for the run in, in Avhich he’s sure to be first, as
if he were just starting. They struggle on
across the next field, the “forward” getting

TO.M BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

fainter and fainter, and then ceasing. The
wliole hunt is out of earshot, and all hope of
coining in is over.

“ Hang it all !” broke out East, as soon as he
had got wind enough, pulling off his hat, and
mopping at his face, all spattered with dirt, and
lined with sweat, from which went up a thick
stream into the still cold air. “ I told you how
it would be. What a thick I was to come ! Here
we are dead beat, and yet I know we’re close to
the run in, if we knew the country.”

“ Well,” said Tom, mopping away, and gulp-
ing down his disappointment, “ it can’t be help-
ed. We did our best, anyhow. Hadn’t we bet-
ter find this lane, and go down it as Y'oung
Brooke told us?”

“I suppose so — nothing else for it,” grunted
East. “If ever I go out last day again,” growl
— growl — growl.

So they tried back slowly and sorrowfully,
and found the lane, and went limping down it,
plashing in the cold puddly ruts, and beginning
to feel how the run had taken it out of them.
The evening closed in fast, and clouded over,
dark, cold, and dreary.

“ Isay, it must be locking-up, I should think,”
remarked East, breaking the silence; “it’s so
dark.”

“What if we’re late ?” said Tom.

“ No tea, and sent up to the Doctor,” answer-
ed East.

The thought didn’t add to their cheerfulness.
Presently a faint halloo was heard from an ad-
joining field. They answered it, and stopped,
hoping for some competent rustic to guide them,
when over a gate some twenty yards ahead
crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of col-
lapse ; he had lost a shoe in the brook, and had
been groping after it up to his elbows in the stiff,
wet clay, and a more miserable creature in the
shape of hoy seldom has been seen.

The sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered
them, for he was some degrees more wretched
than they. They also cheered him, as he was
no longer under the dread of passing his night
alone in the fields. And so in better heart, the
three plashed painfully down the never-ending
lane. At last it widened, just as utter darkness
set in, and they came out on a turnpike-road, and
there paused bewildered, for they had lost all bear-
ings, and knew not whether to turn to the right
or left.

Luckily for them they had not to decide, for
lumbering along the road, with one lamp light-
ed, and two spavined horses in the sha»fts, came
a heavy coach, which after a moment’s suspense
they recognized as the Oxford coach, the re-
doubtable Pig and Whistle.

It lumbered slowly up, and the boys muster-
ing their last run, caught it as it passed, and be-
gan clambering up behind, in which exploit East
missed his footing, and fell flat on his nose along
the road. Tlien the others hailed the old scare-
crow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed
to take them in for a shilling; so there they sat
on the back seat, drubbing with their heels, and

their teeth chattering with cold, and jogged into
Rugby some forty minutes after locking-up. •

Five minutes afterwards, three small limping
shivering figures steal along through the Doc-
tor’s garden, and into the house by the servants’
entrance (all the other gates have been closed
long since), where the first thing they light upon
in the passage is old Thomas, ambling along,
candle in one hand and keys in the other.

He stops and examines their condition with
a grim smile. “Ah! East, Hall, and Brown,
late for locking-up. Must go up to the Doc-
tor’s study at once.”

“ Well but, Thomas, mayn’t we go and wash
first? You can put down the time, you know.”

“Doctor’s study d’rectly you come in — that’s
the orders,” replied old Thomas, motioning to-
wards the stairs at the end of the passage which
led up into the Doctor’s house ; and the boys
turned ruefully down it, not cheered by the old
verger’s muttered remark, “What a pickle they
boys be in ! ” Thomas referred to their faces and
habiliments, but they construed it as indicating
the Doctor’s state of mind. Upon the short
flight of stairs they paused to hold counsel.

“Who’ll go in first?” inquires Tadpole.

“You: — you’re the senior,” answered East.

“Catch me — look at the state I’m in,” re-
joined Hall, showing the arms of his jacket.
“I must get behind you two.”

“Well, but look at me,” said East, indicating
the mass of clay behind which he was standing ;
“I’m worse than you, two to one; you might
grow cabbages on my trowsers.”

“That’s all down below, and you can keep
your legs behind the sofa,” said Hall.

“Here, Brown, you’re the show-figure — you
must lead.”

“ But my face is all muddy,” argued Tom.

“ Oh, we’re all in one boat, for that matter;
but come on, we’re only making it worse, dawd-
ling here.”

“ Well, just give us a brush then,” said Tom ;
and they began trying to rub off the superfluous
dirt from each other’s jackets, but it was not
dry enough, and the rubbing made them worse ;
so in despair they pushed through the swing
door at the head of the stairs, and found them-
selves in the Doctor’s hall.

“ That’s the library door,” said East in a whis-
per, pushing Tom forward. The sound of merry
voices and laughter came from within, and his
first hesitating knock was unanswered. But at
the second, the Doctor’s voice said, “Come in,”
and Tom turned the handle, and he, with the
others behind him, sidled into tlie room.

The Doctor looked up from his task; he was
wmi'king away with a great chisel at the bottom
of a boy’s sailing-boat, the lines of which he was
no doubt fashioning on the model of one of
Nicias’s galleys. Round him stood three or
four children ; the candles burnt brightly on a
large table at the farther end, covered with books
and papers, and a great fire threw a ruddy glow
over the rest of the room. All looked so kind-
ly, and homely, and comfortable, that the boys

TOM BROWNS SCHOOL DAYS.

took heart in a moment, and Tom advanced from
behind the shelter of the great sofa. Tlie Doc-
tor nodded to the children, who went out, cast-
ing curious and amused glances at the three
young scarecrows.

“Please, sir, we’ve been out big-side Hare
and-hounds, and lost our way.”

“ Hall ! you couldn’t keep up, I sujipose?”
“Well, sir," said East, ste])])ing out, and not
liking that the Doctor should think lightly of

“Well, my little fellows," began the Doctor,
drawing himself up with his back to the tire, the
chisel in one hand and his coat-tails in the other,
and his eyes twinkling as he looked them over ;
“ what makes you so late ?"

his running powers, “ we got round Barby all
right, but then — ”

“ Why, what a state you're in, my boy !” in-
terru])ted the Doctor, as the pitiful condition of
East’s garments was fully revealed to him.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

“That’s the fall I got, sir, in the road,” said
East, looking down at himself; “the Old Pig
came by — ”

“ The what?” said the Doctor.

“The Oxford coach, sir,” explained Hall.

“ Hah ! yes, the Regulator,” said the Doctor.

“And I tumbled on iny face, trying to get up
behind,” went on East.

“ You’re not hurt, I hope?” said the Doctor.

“Oh no, sir.”

“ Well now, run up stairs, all three of you,
and get clean things on, and then tell the house-
keeper to give you some tea. You’re too young
to try such long runs. Let Warner know I’ve
seen you. Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.” And away scuttled the
three boys in high glee.

“What a brick, not to give us even twenty
lines to learn !” said the Tadpole, as they reached
their bedroom ; and in half an hour afterwards
they were sitting by the fire in the housekeeper’s
room at a sumptuous tea, with cold meat,
“twice as good a grub as we should have got in
the hall,” as the Tadpole remarked with a grin,
his mouth full of buttered toast. All their
grievances were forgotten, and they were re-
solving to go out the first big-side next half, and
thinking Hare-and-hounds the most delightful
of games.

A day or two afterwards the great passage
outside the bedrooms was cleared of the boxes
and portmanteaus, which went down to be
packed by the matron, and great games of chari-
ot-racing, and cock-fighting, and bolstering went
on in the vacant space, the sure sign of a closing
half-year.

Then came the making up of parties for the
journey home, and Tom joined a party who
were to hire a coach, and post with four horses
to Oxford.

Then the last Saturday on which the Doctor
came round to each form to give out the prizes,
and hear the masters’ last reports of how they
and their charges had been conducting them-
selves; and Tom, to his huge delight, was
praised, and got his I'emove into the lower fourth,
in which all his School-house friends were.

On the next Tuesday morning, at four o’clock,
hot coffee was going on in the housekeeper’s and
matron’s rooms ; boys wrapped in great coats
and mufflers were swallowing hasty mouthfuls,
rushing about, tumbling over luggage, and ask-
ing questions all at once of the matron ; outside
the School-gates were drawn up several chaises
and the four-horse coach which Tom’s party had
chartered, the post-boys in their best jackets and
breeches, and a cornopean player, hired for the
occasion, blowing away “ A southerly wind and
a cloudy sky,” waking all peaceful inhabitants
half-way down the High Street.

Every minute the bustle and hubbub in-
creased ; porters staggered about with boxes
and bags, the cornopean played louder. Old
Thomas sat in his den with a great yellow bag
by his side, out of which he was paying journey
iD'^ney to each boy, comparing by the light of a

solitary dip the dirty crabbed little list in his
own handwriting, with the doctor's list, and the
amount of his cash ; his head was on one side,
his mouth screwed up, and his spectacles dim
from early toil. He had prudently locked the
door, and carried on his operations solely through
the window, or he would have been driven wild,
and lost all his money.

“Thomas, do be quick, we shall never catch
the Highflyer at Dunchurch.”

“That’s your money, all right. Green.”

“ Hullo, Thomas, the Doctor said I was to
have two-pound-ten ; you’ve only given me two
pound.” I fear that Master Green is not con-
fining himself strictly to truth. Thomas turns
his head more on one side than ever, and spells
away at the dirty list. Green is forced away
from the window.

“ Here, Thomas, never mind him, mine’s
thirty shillings.” “And mine too,” “And
mine,” shouted others.

One way or another, the party to which Tom
belonged all got packed and paid, and sallied
out to the gates, the cornopean playing frantic-
ally “ Drops of Brandy,” in allusion, probably,
to the slight potations in which the musician
and post-boys had been already indulging. All
luggage was carefully stowed away inside the
coach and in the front and hind boots, so that
not a hat-box was visible outside. Five or six
small boys, with pea-shooters, and the corno-
pean player, got up behind ; in front the big
boys, mostly smoking, not for pleasure, but be-
cause they are now gentlemen at large — and
this is the most correct public method of notify-
ing the fact.

“ Robinson’s coach will be down the road in
a minute, it has gone up to Bird’s to pick up —
we’ll wait till they’re close, and make a race of
it,” says the leader. “ Now, boys, half a sover-
eign apiece if you beat ’em into Dunchurch by
one hundred yards.”

“ All right, sir,” shouted the grinning post-
boys.

Down comes Robinson’s coach in a minute
or two with a rival cornopean, and away go the
two vehicles, horses galloping, boys cheering,
horns playing loud. There is a special Provi-
dence over schoolboys as well as sailors, or they
must have upset twenty times in the first five
miles, sometimes actually abreast one another,
and the boys on the roofs exchanging volleys
of peas, now nearly running over a post-chaise
which had started before them, now half-way
up a bank, now with a wheel-and-a-half over a
yawning ditch ; and all this in a dark morning,
with nothing but their own lamps to guide them.
However, it is all over at last, and they have
run over nothing but an old pig in Southam
Street; the last peas are distributed in the
Corn Market at Oxford, where they arrive be-
tween eleven and twelve, and sit down to a
sumptuous breakfast at the Angel, which they
are made to pay for accordingly. Here the
party breaks up, all going now dift’erent ways;
and Tom orders out a chaise and pair as grand

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

as a lord, though he has scarcely five shillings
left in his pocket, and more than twenty miles
to get home.

“ Where to, sir ?”

“ Red Lion, Farringdon,” says Tom, giving
hostler a shilling.

“All riglit, sir. Red Lion, Jem,” to the
post-boy, and Tom rattles away towards home.
At Farringdon, being known to the innkeeper,
he gets that worthy to pay for the Oxford horses,
and forward him in another chaise at once ; and
so the gorgeous young gentleman arrives at the
paternal mansion, and Squire Brown looks
ratlier blue at having to pay two pound ten
shillings fur the posting expenses from Oxford.
But the boy’s intense joy at getting home, and
the wonderful health he is in, and the good
character he brings, and the brave stories he
tells of Rugby, its doings and delights, soon
mollify the Squire, and three happier people
didn’t sit down to dinner that day in England
(it is the boy’s first dinner at six o’clock at
home, great promotion already), than the Squire
and his wife and Tom Brown, at the end of his
first half-year at Rugby.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE WAR or INDEPENDENCE.

“They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,

Kather than in silence shrink

Trom the truth they needs must think :

'J’hey are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three."

Lowell, Staiizas on Freedom.

The lower-fourth form, in which Tom found
himself at the beginning of the next half-year,
was the largest form in the lower School, and
numbered upwards of forty boys. Young gen-
tlemen of all ages, from nine to fifteen, were to
be found there, tvho expended such part of their
energies as was devoted to Latin and Greek,
upon a book of Livy, the Bucolics of Virgil, and
the Hecuba of Euripides, which were ground
out in small daily portions. The driving of this
unlucky lower-fourth must have been grievous
work to the unfortunate master, for it was the
most unhappily constituted of any in the School.
Here stuck the great stupid boys, who for the
life of them could never master the accidence ;
the objects alternately of mirth and terror to
the youngsters, who were daily taking them up,
and laughing at them in lesson, and getting
kicked by them for so doing in play-hours.
There were no less than three unhappy fellows
in tail coats, with incipient down on their chins,
whom the Doctor and the master of the form
were always endeavoring to hoist into the upper
school, hut whose parsing and construing resist-
ed the most well-meant shoves. Then came
the mass of the form, boys of eleven and twelve,
the most mischievous and reckless age of British
youth, of whom East and Tom Brown wei'e fair
specimens. As full of tricks as monkeys, and

of excuses as Irish women, making fun of their
master, one another, and their lessons, Argus
himself would have been puzzled to keep an eye
on them ; and as for making them steady or
serious for half an hour together, it was simply
hopeless. The remainder of the form consisted
of young prodigies of nine or ten, who were go-
ing up the school at the rate of a form a half-
year, all boys’ hands and wits being against
them in their progress. It would have been one
man’s work to see that the precocious young-
sters had fair play ; and as the master had a
good deal besides to do, they hadn’t, and were
forever being shoved down three or four places,
their verses stolen, their books inked, their jack-
ets whitened, and their lives otherwise made a
burden to them.

The lower-fourth, and all the forms below it,
were heard in the great school, and w'ere not
trusted to prepare their lessons before coming
in, but were whipped into school three-quarters
of an hour before the lesson began by their re-
spective masters, and there, scattered about on the
benches, with dictionary and grammar, ham-
mered out their twenty lines of Virgil and Eurip-
ides in the midst of Babel. The masters of
the lower school walked up and down the great
school together during this three-quarters of an
hour, or sat in their desks reading or looking
over copies, and keeping such order as ivas pos-
sible. But the lower-fourth was just now an
overgrown form, too large for any one man to
attend to properly, and consequently the elysium
or ideal form of the young scapegraces who
formed the staple of it.

Tom, as has been said, had come up from the
third with a good character, but the temptations
of the lower-fourth soon proved too strong for
him, and he rapidly fell away, and became as
unmanageable as the rest. For some weeks,
indeed, he succeeded in maintaining the appear-
ance of steadiness, and was looked upon favora-
bly by his new master, whose eyes wmre first
opened by the following little incident :

Besides the desk which the master himself
occupied, there was another large unoccupied
desk in the corner of the great school, which
was untenanted. To rush and seize upon this
desk, which was ascended by three steps, and
held four boys, was the great object of ambition
of the lower-fourthers and the contentions for
the occupation of it bred such disorder, that at
last the master forbade its use altogether. This
of course w'as a challenge to the more adventur-
ous spirits to occupy it, and as it was capacious
enough for two boys to lie hid there completely,
it was seldom that it remained empty, notwith-
standing the veto. Small holes were cut in the
front, through which the occupants watched the
masters as they walked up and down, and as les-
son-time approached, one boy at a time stole out
and down the steps, as the masters’ backs were
turned, and mingled with the general crowd on
the forms below. Tom and East had success-
fully occupied the desk some half-dozen times,
and were grown so reckless that they were in

TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS.

the habit of playing small games with fives’-balls
inside, when the masters were at the other end
of the big school. One day, as ill-luck would
have it, the game became more exciting than
usual, and the ball slipped through East’s fin-
gers, and rolled slowly down the steps, and out
into the middle of the school, just as the mas-
ters turned in their walk and faced round upon
the desk. The young delinquents watched their
master, through the look-out holes, march slow-
ly down the school straight upon their retreat,
while all the boys in the neighborhood of course
stopped their work to look on : and not only
were they ignominiously drawn out, and caned
over the hand then and there, but their charac-
ters for steadiness were gone from that time.
However, as they only shared the fate of some
three-fourths of the rest of the form, this did not
weigh heavily upon them.

In fact, the only occasions on which they
cared about the matter, were the monthly ex-
aminations, when the Doctor came round to ex-
amine their form, for one long awful hour, in
the work which they had done in the preceding
month. The second monthly examination came
round soon after Tom’s fall, and it was with any
thing but lively anticipations that he and the
other lower-fourth boys came in to prayers on the
morning of the examination day.

Prayers and calling-over seemed twice as short
as usual, and before they could get construes of
a tithe of the hard passages marked in the mar-
gin of their books, they were all seated round,
and the Doctor was standing in the middle, talk-
ing in whispers to the master. Tom couldn’t
hear a word which passed, and never lifted his
eyes from his book ; but he knew by a sort of
magnetic instinct that the Doctor’s under lip
was coming out, and his eye beginning to burn,
and his gown getting gathered up more and
more tightly in his left hand. The suspense
was agonizing, and Tom knew that he was sure
on such occasions to make an example of the
School-house boys. “ If he would only begin,”
thought Tom, “I shouldn’t mind.”

At last the whispering ceased, and the name
whicli was called out was not Brown. He look-
ed up for a moment, but the Doctor’s face was
too awful; Tom wouldn’t have met his eye for
all he was worth, and buried himself in his book
again.

The boy who was called up first was a clever
merry School-house boy, one of their set: he
was some connection of the Doctor’s, and a
great favorite, and ran in and out of his house
as he liked, and so was selected for the first
victim.

“Triste lupus stabulis,” began the luckless
youngster, and stammered through some eight
or ten lines.

“ There, that will do,” said the Doctor, “ now
construe.”

On common occasions, the boy could have
construed the passage well enough probably, but
now his head was gone.

Triste lupus, the sorrowful wolf,” ho began.

A shudder ran through the whole form, and
the Doctor’s wrath fairly boiled over ; he made
three steps up to the construer, and gave him a
good box on the ear. The blow was not a hard
one, but the boy was so taken by surprise that
he started back ; the form caught the back of
his knees, and over he went on to the floor be-
hind. There was a dead silence over the whole
school ; never before and never again while Tom
was at school did the Doctor strike a boy in les-
son. The provocation must have been great.
However, the victim had saved his form for that
occasion, for the Doctor turned to the top bench,
and put on the best boys for the rest of the
hour; and though, at the end of the lesson, he
gave them all such a rating as they did not for-
get, this terrible field-day passed over without
any severe visitations in the shape of punish-
ments or floggings. Forty young scapegraces
expressed their thanks to the “ sorrowful wolf”
in their different ways before second lesson.

But a character for steadiness once gone is
not easily recovered, as Tom found, and for
years afterwards he went up the school without
it, and the masters’ hands were against him, and
his against them. And he regarded them, as a
matter of course, as his natural enemies.

Matters were not so comfortable either in the
house as they had been, for Old Brooke left at
Christmas, and one or two others of the sixth-
form boys at the following Easter. Their rule
had been rough, but strong and just in the main,
and a higher standard was beginning to be set
up ; in fact, there had been a short foretaste of
the good time which followed some years later.
Just now, however, all threatened to return into
darkness and chaos again. For the new prae-
postors were cither small young boys, whose
cleverness had carried them up to the top of the
school, while, in strength of body and character,
they were not yet fit for a share in the govern-
ment ; or else big fellows of the wrong sort, boys
whose friendships and tastes had a downward
tendency, who had not caught the meaning of
their position and work, and felt none of its re-
sponsibilities. So under this no-government the
School-house began to see bad times. The big
fifth-form boys, who were a sporting and drink-
ing set, soon began to usurp power, and to fag
the little boys as if they were praepostors, and
to bully and oppress any who showed signs of
resistance. The bigger sort of sixth-form boys
just described soon made common cause with
the fifth, while the smaller sort, hampered by
their colleagues’ desertion to the enemy, could
not make head against them. So the fags were
without their lawful masters and protectors, and
ridden over rough-shod by a set of boys whom
they were not bound to obey, and whose only
right over them stood in their bodily powers ;
and, as Old Brooke had prophesied, the house by
degrees broke up into small sets and parties,
and lost the strong feeling of fellowship which
he set so much store by, and with it much of the
prowess in games, and the lead in all school
matters, which he had done so much to keep up.

TOM BKOWK’S SCHOOL DAYS.

In no place in the world has individual char-
acter more weight than at a public school. Ke-
inember this, I beseech you, all j'ou boys wlio
are getting into the upper forms. Now is the
time in all your lives, probably, when you may
have more wide influence for good or evil on
the society you live in, tlian you ever can have
again. Quit yourselves like men, then ; speak
up, and strike out if necessary for whatsoever is
true, and manh% and lovely, and of good report ;
never try to be popular, but only to do your
duty and help others to do theirs, and you may
leave the tone of feeling in the school higher
than you found it, and so be doing good, which
no living soul can measure, to generations of
your countrymen yet unborn. For boys follow
one another in herds like sheep, for good or
evil ; they hate thinking, and have rarely any
settled princijdes. Every school, indeed, has
its own traditionary standard of right and
wrong, which can not be transgressed with im-
punity, marking certain things as low and black-
guard, and certain others as lawful and right.
This standard is ever varying, though it changes
only slpwly, and little by little ; and, subject
only to such standard, it is the leading boys for
the time being who give the tone to all the rest,
and make the School either a noble institution
for the training of Christian Englishmen, or a
place Avhere a young boy will get more evil than
he would if he were turned out to make his
waj in London streets, or any thing between
these two extremes.

The change for the worse in the School-
house, however, didn’t press very heavily on our
youngsters for some time ; they were in a good
bedroom, where slept the only praspostor left
who was able to keep thorough order, and their
study was in his passage ; so, though they were
fagged more or less, and occasionally kicked or
cuffed b}’’ the bullies, they were on the w'hole
well off ; and the fresh brave school-life, so full
of games, adventures, and good fellowship, so
ready at forgetting, so capacious at enjoying, so
bright at forecasting, outweighed a thousandfold
their troubles with the master of their form, and
the occasional ill-usage of the big boys in the
house. It w’asn’t till some year or so after the
events recorded above, that the prsepostor of
their room and passage left. None of the other
sixth-form boys would move into their passage,
and, to the disgust and indignation of Tom and
East, one morning after breakfast they were
seized upon by Flashman, and made to carry
down his books and furniture into the unoccu-
pied study which he had taken. From this
time' they began to feel the weight of the tyran-
ny of Flashman and his friends, and, now that
trouble had come home to their own doors, be-
gan to look out for sympathizers and partners
amongst the rest of the fags ; and meetings of
the oppressed began to be held, and murmurs
to arise, and plots to be laid, as to how they
tkhould free themselves and be avenged on their
enemies.

While matters were in this state. East and

Tom were one evening sitting in their study.
They had done their work for first lesson, and
Tom was in a brown study, brooding, like a
young William Tell, upon the wrongs of fags in
general, and bis own in particular.

“I say. Scud,” said he at last, rousing him-
self to snuff the candle, “ what right have the
fifth-form boys’ to fag us as they do ?”

“No more right than you have to fag them,”
answered East, without looking up from an early
number of Pickwick, which was just coming
out, and which he was luxuriously devouring,
stretched on his back on the sofa.

Tom relapsed into his brown study, and East
went on reading and chuckling. The contrast
of the boys’ faces would have given infinite
amusement to a looker-on, the one so solemn
and big with mighty purpose, the other radiant
and bubbling over with fun.

“Do you know, old fellow, I’ve been think-
ing it over a good deal,” began Tom again.

“Oh yes, I know, fagging you are thinking
of. Hang it all — but listen here, Tom — here’s
fun. Mr. Winkle's horse — ”

“And I’ve made up my mind,” broke in
Tom, “that I won’t fag except for the sixth.”

“ Quite right, too, my boy,” cried East, put-
ting his finger on the place and looking up ;
“ but a pretty peck of troubles you’ll get into,
if you’re going to play that game. However,
I’m all for a strike myself, if we can get others
to join — it’s getting too bad.”

“Can’t we get some sixth-form fellow to
take it up ?” asked Tom.

“Well, perhaps we might; Morgan would
interfere, I think. Only,” added East, after a
moment’s pause, “you see we should have to
tell him about it, and that’s against School
principles. Don’t you remember what Old
Brooke said about learning to take our own
parts ?”

“Ah, I wish Old Brooke were back again —
it was all right in his time.”

“ Why, yes, you see then the strongest and
best fellows were in the sixth, and the fifth-form
fellows were afraid of them, and they kept good
order ; but now our sixth-form fellows are too
small, and the fifth don’t care for them, and do
what they like in the house.”

“And so we get a double set of masters,”
cried Tom, indignantly ; “ the lawful ones, who
are responsible to the Doctor at any rate, and
the unlawful — the tyrants, who are responsible
to nobody.”

“ Down with the tyrants !” cried East ; “ I’m
all for law and order, and hurrah for a revolu-
tion!”

“I shouldn’t mind if it were only for young
Brooke now,” said Tom, “he’s such a good-
hearted, gentlemanly fellow, and ought to be in
the sixth — I’d do any thing for him. But that
blackguard Flashman, who never speaks to one
without a kick or an oath — ”

“The cowardly brute,” broke in East, “ how
I hate him ! And he knows it too — he knows
that you and I think him a coward. What a

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

bore that he’s got a study in this passage ! don’t
you hear them now at supper in his den?
Brandy punch going, I’ll bet. I wish the Doc-
tor would come out and catch him. We must
change our study as soon as we can.”

“ Change or no change, I’ll never fag for him
again,” said Tom, thumping the table.

“Fa-a-a-ag!” sounded along the passage
from Flashman’s study. The two boys looked
at one another in silence. It had struck nine,'
so the regular night-fags had left duty, and
they were the nearest to the supper-party. East
sat up, and began to look comical, as he always
did under difficulties.

“Fa-a-a-ag!” again. No answer.

“Here, Brown! East! you cursed young
skulks,” roared out Flashman, coming to his
open door, “I know you’re in — no shirking.”
Tom stole to their door, and drew the bolts
as noiselessly as he could; East blew out the
candle. “Barricade the first,” whispered he.
“ Now, Tom, mind, no surrender.”

“Trust me for that,” said Tom between his
teeth.

In another minute they heard the supper-
party turn out and come down the passage to
their door. Tliey held their breaths, and heard
whispering, of which they only made out Flash-
man’s words, “ I know the young brutes are in.”
Then came summonses to open, which being
unanswered, the assault commenced : luckily
the door was a good strong oak one, and resist-
ed the united weight of Flashman’s party. A
pause followed, and they heard a besieger re-
mark, “They’re in safe enough — don’t you see
how the door holds at top and bottom? so the
bolts must be drawn. We should have forced
the lock long ago.” East gave Tom a nudge,
to call attention to this scientific remark.

Then came attacks on particular panels, one
of which at last gave way to the repeated kicks ;
but it broke inwards, and the broken pieces got
jammed across, the door being lined with green
baize, and couldn’t easily be removed from out-
side ; and the besieged, scorning further con-
cealment, strengthened their defenses by press-
ing the end of their sofa against the door. So,
after one or two more ineffectual efforts. Flash-
man & Co. retired, vowing vengeance in no
mild terms.

The first danger over, it only remained for
the besieged to effect a safe retreat, as it was
now near bedtime. They listened intently,
and heard the supper-party resettle themselves,
and then gently drew baek first one bolt and
then the other. Presently the convivial noises
began again steadily. “Now then, stand by
for a run,” said East, throwing the door wide
open and rushing into the passage, closely fol-
lowed by Tom. They were too quick to be
caught, but Flashman was on the look-out, and
sent an empty pickle-jar whizzing after them,
which narrowly missed Tom’s head, and broke
into twenty pieces at the end of the passage.
“He wouldn’t mind killing one, if he wasn’t
caught,” said East, as they turned the corner.

There was no pursuit, so the two turned into
the hall, where they found a knot of small boys
round the fire. Tfieir story was told — the war
of independence had broken out — who would
join the revolutionary forces ? Several others
present bound themselves not to fiig for the
fifth form at once. One or two only edged off’,
and left the rebels. What else could they do ?
“ I’ve a good mind to go to the Doctor straight,”
said Tom.

“That’ll never do — don’t you remember the
levy of the School last half?” put in another.

In fact, the solemn assembly, a levy of the
School, had been held, at which the captain of
the School had got up, and, after premising that
several instances had occurred of matters liav-
ing been reported to the masters, that this was
against public morality and School tradition ;
that a levy of the si.xth had been held on the
subject, and they had resolved that the practice
must be stopped at once; and given out that
any boy, in whatever form, who should thence-
forth appeal to a master, without having first
gone to some praepostor and laid the case before
him, should be thrashed publicly, and sent to
Coventry.

“Well, then, let’s try the sixth. Try Mor-
gan,” suggested another. “ No use ” — “ Blab-
bing won’t do,” was the general feeling.

“I’ll give you fellows a piece of advice,”
said a voice from the end of the hall. They all
turned round with a start, and the speaker got
up from a bench on which he had been lying
unobserved, and gave himself a shake ; he was
a big loose-made fellow, with huge limbs which
had grown too far through his jacket and trow-
sers. “ Don’t you go to any body at all — you
just stand out ; say you won’t fag — they’ll soon
get tired of licking you. I’ve tried it on years
ago with their forerunners.”

“No! did you? tell us how it was,” cried a
chorus of voices, as they clustered round him.

“Well, just as it is with yon. The fifth
form would ffig us, and I and some more
struck, and we beat ’em. The good fellows left
off directly, and the bullies who kept on soon
got afraid.”

“Was Flashman here then ?”

“Yes! and a dirty little snivelling, sneaking
fellow he was too. He never dared join us,
and used to toady the bullies by offering to fag
for them, and peaching against the rest of us.”

“ Why wasn’t he cut, then ?” said East.

“Oh, toadies never get cut, they’re too use-
ful. Besides, he has no end of great hampers
from home, with wine and game in them ; so
he toadied and fed himself into favor.”

The quarter-to-ten bell now rang, and the
small boys went off up stairs, still consulting
together, and praising their new counsellor*,
who stretched himself out on the bench before
the Hall fire again. There he lay, a very queer
specimen of boyhood, by name Diggs, and fa-
miliarly called “tbe Mucker.” He was young
for his size, and a very clever fellow, nearly at
the top of the fifth. His friends at home, hav-

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

ing regard, I suppose, to his age, and not to his ^
size and place in the School, hadn’t put him |
into tails ; iind even his jackets were always too |
small; and he had a talent for destroying
clothes, and making himself look shabby. He
wasn’t on terms with Flashman’s set, wlio
sneered at his dress and ways behind his back, ;
which he knew, and revenged himself by ask- '
ing Flashman the most disagreeable questions, '
and treating him familiarly whenever a crowd
of boys were round him. Neither was he inti-
mate with any of the other bigger boys, who
were warned off by his oddnesses, for he was a
very queer fellow; besides, amongst other fail-
ings, he had that of impecuniosity in a remark-
able degree. He brought as much money as
other boys to school, but got rid of it in no time, '
no one knew how. And then, being also reck-
le.ss, borrowed from any one, and wlien his
debts accumulated and creditors pressed, would
have an auction in the Hall of every tiling he j
possessed in the world, selling even his school-
books, candlestick, and study table. For weeks ^
after one of these auctions, having rendered his
study uninhabitable, he would live about in the ,
fifth-form room and Hall, doing his verses on
old letter-backs and odd scraps of paper, and
learning his lessons no one knew how. He
never meddled with any little boy, and was
popular w'ith them, though they all looked on
him with a sort of compassion, and called him
“poor Diggs,” not being able to resist appear-
ances, or to disregard wholly even the sneers of
their enemy Flashman. However, he seemed
equally indifferent to the sneers of big boys and
the pity of small ones, and lived his own queer
life with much apparent enjoyment to himself.
It is necessary to introduce Diggs thus particu-
larly, as he not only did Tom and East good
service in their present warfare, as is about to
be told, but soon afterwards, when he got into
the sixth, chose them for his fags, and excused
them from study-fagging, there% earning unto
himself eternal gratitude from them, and all
who are interested in their history.

And seldom had small boys more need of a
friend, for the morning after the siege the storm
burst upon the rebels in all its violence. Flash-
man laid wait, and caught Tom before second
lesson, and receiving a point blank “ No,” when
told to fetch his hat, seized him and twisted his
arm, and went through the other methods of tor-
ture in use : — “ He couldn’t make me cry, tho’,”
as Tom said triumphantly to the rest of the
rebels, “and I kicked his shins well, I know.”
And soon it crept out that a lot of the fags were
in league, and Flashman excited his associates
to join him in bringing the young vagabonds to
their senses ; and the house was filled wit'n con-
stant chasings, and sieges, and lickings of all
sorts ; and in return, the bullies’ beds were pull-
ed to pieces, and drenched with water, and their
names written up on the walls with every insult-
ing epithet which the fag invention could fur-
nish. The war in short raged fiercely ; but soon,
as Diggs had told them, all the better fellows in

the fifth gave up trying to fag them, and j)ublic
feeling began to set against Flashman and his
two or three intimates, and they were obliged
to keep their doings more secret, but being thor-
ough bad fellows, missed no opportunity of tor-
turing in private. Flashman was an adept in
all ways, but above all in the jjower of saying
cutting and cruel things, and could often bring
tears to the eyes of boys in this way, which all
the thrashings in the world wouldn’t have wrung
from them.

And as his operations were being cut short in
other directions, he now devoted himself chiefly
to Tom and East, who lived at his own door,
and would force himself into their study when-
ever he found a chance, and sit there, sometimes
alone, and sometimes with a companion, inter-
rupting all their work, and exulting in the evi-
dent pain which every now and then he could
see he was inflicting on one or the other.

The storm had cleared the air for the rest of
the house, and a better state of things now began
than there had been since Old Brooke had left ;
but an angry dark spot of thunder-doud still
hung over the end of the passage, where Flash-
man’s study and that of East and Tom lay.

He felt that they had been the first rebels,
and that the rebellion had been to a great extent
successful ; but what above all stirred the hatred
and bitterness of his heart against them w'as that,
in the frequent collisions which there had been
of late, they had openly called him coward and
sneak — the taunts were too true to be forgiven.
While he was in the act of thrashing them, they
would roar out instances of his funking at foot-
ball, or shirking some encounter with a lout of
half his own size. These things were all w'ell
enough known in the house, but to have his own
disgrace shouted out by small boys, to feel that
they despised him, to be unable to silence them
by any amount of torture, and to see the open
laugh and sneer of his own associates (who were
looking on, and took no trouble to hide their
scorn from him, though they neither interfered
with his bullying or lived a bit the less inti-
mately with him), made him beside himself.
Come wliat might, he would make those boys’
lives miserable. So the strife settled down into
a personal affair between Flashman and our
youngsters; a war to the knife, to be fought out
in the little cockpit at the end of the bottom pas-
sage.

Flashman, be it said, was about seventeen
years old, and big and strong of his age. He
played well at all games where jiluck wasn’t much
wanted, and managed generally to keeji uj) ap-
pearances where it was; and having a bluff ofi-
hand manner, which passed for heartiness, and
consideral)lc powers of being pleasant when he
liked, went down with the school in general for
a good fellow enough. Even in the School-house,
by dint of his command of money, the constant
supply of good things which he kept up, and his
adroit toadyism, he had managed to make him-
self not only tolerated but rather popular amongst
hisowncontem])ornries; although Young Brooke

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

scarcely spoke to him, and one or two others of
the right sort showed their opinions of him
whenever a chance ottered. But the wrong sort
happened to be in the ascendant just now, and
so Flashman was a formidable enemy for small
boys. This soon became plain enough. Flash-
man left no slander unspoken, and no deed un-
done, which could in any way hurt his victims,
or isolate them from the rest of the house. One
by one most of the other rebels fell away from
them, while Flashman’s cause prospered, and
several other fifth-fonn boys began to look black
at them and ill-treat them as they passed about
the house. By keeping out of bounds, or at all
events out of the house and quadrangle, all day,
and carefully barring themselves in at night.
East and Tom managed to hold on without feel-
ing very miserable ; but it was as much as they
could do. Greatly were they drawn then towards
old Diggs, who, in an uncouth way, began to
take a good deal of notice of them, and once or
twice came to their study when Flashman was
there, who immediately decamped in conse-
quence. The boys thought that Diggs must
have been watching.

When, therefore, about this time, an auction
was one night announced to take place in the
Hall, at which, amongst the superfluities of other
boys, all Diggs’ Penates for the time being were
going to the hammer. East and Tom laid their
heads together, and resolved to devote their
ready cash (some four shillings sterling) to re-
deem such articles as that sum would cover.
Accordingly, they duly attended to bid, and Tom
became the owner of two lots of Diggs’ things : —
Lot 1, price one-and-tlu'eepence, consisting (as
the auctioneer remarked) of a “ valuable assort-
ment of old metals,” in the shape of a mouse-
trap, a cheese-toaster without a handle, and a
saucepan ; Lot 2, of a villainous dirty table-cloth
and green-baize curtain : while East, for one-
and-sixpence, purchased a leather paper-case,
with a lock but no key, once handsome, but now
much the worse for wear. But they had still the
point to settle, of how to get Diggs to take the
things without hurting his feelings. This they
solved by leaving them in his study, which was
never locked when he Avas out. Diggs, who
had attended the auction, remembered who had
bought the lots, and came to their study soon
after, and sat silent for some time, cracking his
great red finger-joints. Then he laid hold of
their verses, and began looking over and alter-
ing them, and at last got up, and turning his
back to them, said, “You’re uncommon good-
hearted little beggars, you two — I value that
paper- case ; my sister gave it me last holidays —
I won’t forget;” and so tumbled out into the
passage, leaving them somewhat embarrassed,
but not sorry that he knew what they had done.

The next morning was Saturday, the day on
which the allowances of one shilling a week were
paid, an important event to spendthrift young-
sters ; and great was the disgust amongst the
small fry, to hear that all the allowances had
been impounded for the Derby lottery. That

great event in the English year, the Derby, was
celebrated at Rugby in those days by many lot-
teries. It was not an improving custom, 1 own,
gentle reader, and led to making books and bet-
ting, and other objectionable results ; but when
our great Houses of Palaver think it right to stop
the nation’s business on that day, and many of
the members bet heavily themselves, can you
blame us boys for following the example of our
betters? — at any rate Ave did follow it. First
there was the great School lottery, Avhere the
first prize Avas six or seven pounds ; then each
house had one or more separate lotteries. These
Avere all nominally voluntary, no boy being com-
pelled to put in his shilling who didn’t choose
to do so ; but besides Flashman, there were three
or four other fast sporting young gentlemen in
the School-house, who considered subscription
a matter of duty and necessity, and so to make
their duty come easy to the small boys, quietly
secured the allowances in a lump when given
out for distribution, and kept them. It Avas no
use grumbling — so many foAver tartlets and ap-
ples Avere eaten and fives’-balls bought on that
Saturday ; and after locking-up, when the money
Avould otherwise have been spent, consolation
Avas carried to many a small boy, by the sound
of the night-fags sliouting along the passages,
“ Gentlemen sportsmen of the School-house, the
lottery’s going to be drawn in the Hall.” It
Avas pleasant to be called a gentleman sports-
man— also to have a chance of drawing a favor-
ite horse.

The Hall was full of boys, and at the head of
one of the long tables stood the sporting inter-
est, Avith a hat before them, in Avhich were the
tickets folded up. One of them then began
calling out the list of the house ; each boy as
his name was called drcAv a ticket from the hat
and opened it ; and most of the bigger boys, af-
ter drawing, left the Hall directly to go back to
their studies or the fifth-form room. The
sporting interest had all draAvn blanks, and they
Avere sulky accordingly; neither of the favorites
had yet been draAvn, and it had come doAvn to
the upper fourth. So noAv, as each small boy
came up and drcAv his ticket, it Avas seized and
opened by Flashman, or some other of the
standers-by. But no great favorite is draAvn
until it comes to the Tadpole’s turn, and he
shuffles up, and draws, and tries to make off,
but is caught, and his ticket is opened like the
rest.

“ Here you are ! Wanderer ! the third faA'or-
ite,” shouts the opener.

“I say, just gi\-e me my ticket, please,” re-
monstrates Tadpole.

“Hullo, don’t be in a hurry,” breaks in
Flashman, “ Avhat’ll you sell Wanderer for,
now ?”

“ I don’t Avant to sell,” rejoins Tadpole.

“ Oh, don’t you ? Noav listen, you young
fool — you don’t knoAV any thing about it ; the
horse is no use to you. He won’t Avin, but I
want him as a hedge. Noav I’ll giA'c you half
a croAvn for him.” Tadpole holds out, but be-

TOM IMIOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

tween threats and cajoleries at length sells half
for one-shilling-and-sixpence, about a fifth of its
fair market value ; however, he is glad to real-
ize any thing, and as he wisely remarks,
“Wanderer mayn’t win, and the tizzy is safe
anyliow.”

East presently comes up, and draws a blank.
Soon after comes Tom’s turn ; his ticket, like
the others, is seized and opened. “ Here you
are then,” shouts the opener, holding it up :
“Harkaway! By Jove, Flashey, your young
friend’s in luck.”

“Give me the ticket,” says Flashraan with
an oath, leaning across the table with open
hand, and his face black with rage.

“Wouldn’t you like it?” replies the opener,
not a bad fellow at the bottom, and no admirer
of Flashman. “Here, Brown, catch hold,” and
he hands the ticket to Tom, who pockets it ;
whereupon Flashman makes for the door at
once, that Tom and the ticket may not escape,
and there keeps watch until the drawing is
over, and all the boys are gone, except the
sporting set of five or six, who stay to compare
books, make bets, and so on ; Tom, who doesn’t
choose to move while Flashman is at the door,
and East, who stays by his friend, anticipating
trouble.

The sporting set now gathered around Tom.
Public opinion wouldn’t allow them actually to
rob him of his ticket, but any humbug or intimi-
dation by which he could be driven to sell the
whole or part at an under value was lawful.

“ Now, young Brown, come, what’ll you sell
me Harkaway for ? I hear he isn’t going to
start. Pil give you five shillings for him,” be-
gins the boy who had opened the ticket. Tom,
remembering his good deed, and moreover in
his forlorn state wishing to make a friend, is
about to accept the offer, when another cries
out, “ I’ll give you seven shillings.” Tom hesi-
tated, and looked from one to the other.

“ No, no !” said Flashman, pushing in,
“ leave me to deal with him ; we’ll draw lots
for it afterwards. Now, sir, you know me —
you’ll sell Harkaway to us for five shillings, or
you’ll repent it.”

“I won’t sell a bit of him,” answered Tom,
shortly.

“You hear that now!” said Flashman, turn-
ing to the others. “He’s the coxiest young
blackguard in the house — I always told you so.
We’re to have all tlie trouble and risk of get-
ting up the lotteries for the benefit of such fel-
lows as he.”

Flashman forgets to explain what risk they
ran, but he speaks to willing ears. Gambling
makes boys selfish and cruel as well as men.

“That’s true, — we always draw blanks,”
cried one. “Now, sir, you shall sell half, at
any rate.”

“ I won’t,” said Tom, flushing up to his hair,
and lumping them all in his mind wdth his
sworn enemy.

“Very well, then, let's ronst him,” cried
Flashman, and catches hold of Tom by the col-

lar : one or two boys hesitate, but the rest join
in. East seizes Tom’s arm and tries to pull
him away, but is knocked back by one of the
boys, and Tom is dragged along struggling.
His shoulders are pushed against the mantel-
piece, and he is held by main force before the
fire, Flashman drawing his trow'sers tight by
way of extra torture. Poor East, in more ]iain
even than Tom, suddenly thinks of Diggs, and
darts off to find him. “ Will you sell now for
ten shillings ?” says one boy who is relenting.

Tom only answers by groans and struggles,

“I say, Flashey, he has had enough,” says
the same boy, dropping the arm he holds.

“No, no, another turn’ll do it,” answers
Flashman. But poor Tom is done already,
turns deadly pale, and his head falls forward
on his breast, just as Diggs, in frantic excite-
ment, rushes into the Hall with East at his
heels.

“You cowardly brutes !” is all he can say, as
he catches Tom from them and supports him to
the Hall table. “ Good God I he’s dying.
Here, get some cold water — run for the house-
keeper.”

Flashman and one or two others slink away ;
the rest, ashamed and sorry, bend over Tom or
run for water, while East darts off for the house-
keeper. Water comes, and they throw it on his
hands and face, and he begins to come to.
“ Mother !” — the words came feebly and slowly
— “ it’s very cold to-night.” Poor old Diggs is
blubbering like a child. “ Where am I ?” goes
on Tom, opening his eyes. “Ah ! I remember
now,” and he shut his eyes again and groaned.

“I say,” is whispered, “we can’t do any
good, and the housekeeper will be here in a
minute,” and all but one steal away; he stays
with Diggs, silent and sorrowful, and fans
Tom’s face.

The housekeeper comes in with strong salts,
and Tom soon recovers enough to sit up.
There is a smell of burning ; she examines his
clothes, and looks up inquiringly. The boys
are silent.

“How did he come so ?” No answer.

“There’s been some bad work here,” she
adds, looking very serious, ‘ ‘ and I shall speak
to the Doctor about it.” Still no answer.

“ Hadn’t we better carry him to the sick-
room ?” suggests Diggs.

“ Oh, I can walk now,” says Tom ; and, sup-
ported by East and the housekeeper, goes to the
sick-room. The boy who held his ground is
soon amongst the rest, who are all in fear of
I their lives. “Did he peach?” “Does she
know about it ?”

“Not a word — he’s a stanch little fellow.”
And pausing a moment, he adds, “I’m sick of
this work : what brutes we’ve been !”

Meantime Tom is stretched on the sofa in
the housekeeper’s room, with East by his side,
while she gets wine and water and other re-
storatives.

“ Are you much hurt, dear old boy?” whis-
P'^rs East.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

BOASTING A FAG.

“Only the back of my legs,” answers Tom.
They are indeed badly scorched, and part of his
Irowsers burnt through. But soon he is in bed
with cold bandages. At first he feels broken,
and thinks of writing home and getting taken
away ; and the verse of a hymn he had learned
years ago sings through his head, and he goes
to sleep, murmuring —

“ Where the wicked ce.ase from troubling.

And the weary are at rest.”

But after a sound night’s rest, the old boy-
spirit comes back again. East comes in re-
porting that the whole House is with him, and
he forgets every thing except their old resolve,
never to be beaten by that bully Flashman.

Not a word could the housekeeper extract
from either of them ; and though the Doctor
knew all that she knew that morning, he never
knew any more.

I trust and believe that such scenes are not
possible now at school, and that lotteries and
betting-books have gone out ; but I am writing
of schools as they were in our time, and must
give the evil with the good.

CHAPTER IX.

A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS.

“ Wherein I [speak] of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field.

Of hair-breadth ’scapes.” — Siiakspf.are.

When Tom came back into school after a
couple of days in the sick-room, he found mat-

ters much changed for the better, as East had
led him to expect. Elashman’s brutality had
disgusted most even of his intimate friends, and
his cowardice had once more been made plain
to the House ; for Diggs had encountered him
on the morning after the lottery, and after high
words on both sides had struck him, and the
blow was not returned. However, Flashey was
not unused to this sort of thing, and had lived
through as awkward affairs before, and, as Diggs
had said, fed and toadied himself back into favor
again. Two or three of the boys who had help-
ed to roast Tom came up and begged his par-
don, and thanked him for not telling any thing.
Morgan sent for him, and was inclined to take
the matter up Avarmly, but Tom begged him not
to do it ; to which he agreed, on Tom’s promis-
ing to come to him at once in future — a promise
which I regret to say he didn’t keep. Tom
kept Harkaway all to himself, and won the sec-
ond prize in the lottery, some thirty shillings,
which he and East contrived to spend in about
three days, in the purchase of pictures for their
study, two new bats and a cricket-ball, all the
best that could be got, and a supper of sausages,
kidneys, and beef-steak pies to all the rebels.
Light come, light go ; they wouldn’t have been
comfortable Avith money in their pockets in the
middle of the half.

The embers of Flashman’s wrath, hoAvever,
were still smouldering, and burst out every now
and then in sly blows and taunts, and they both
felt that they hadn’t quite done with him yet.
It Avasn’t long, hoAA’cver, before the last act of
that drama came, and Avith it the end of bully-

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

in" for Tom and East at Rugby. They now
often stole out into the Hall at nights, incited
thereto, partly by the hope of finding Diggs
there and having a talk with him, partly by
the excitement of doing something which was
against rules ; for, sad to say, both of our young-
sters, since their loss of character for steadiness
in their form, had got into the habit of doing
things which were forbidden, as a matter of ad-
venture; just in the same way, I should fanc3’,
as men fall into smuggling, and for the same
sort of reasons — thoughtlessness in the first
place. It never occurred to them to consider
why such and such rules were laid down : the
reason was nothing to them, and they only look-
ed upon rules as a sort of challenge from the
rule-makers, which it would be rather bad pluck
in them not to accept; and then again, in the
loAver parts of the school they hadn’t enough to
do. The work of the form they could manage
to get through pretty easily, keeping a good
enough place to get their regular yearly remove ;
and not having much ambition beyond this,
their whole superfluous steam was available for
games and scrapes. Now, one rule of the
House which it was a daily pleasure of all such
boys to break, was that after supper all fogs,
except the three on duty in the passages, should
remain in their own studies until nine o’clock ;
and if caught about the passages or Hall, or
in one another’s studies, they were liable to
punishments or caning. The rule was stricter
than its observance ; for most of the sixth spent
their evenings in the fifth-form room, where the
library was, and the lessons were learnt in com-
mon. Every now and then, however, a praepos-
tor would be seized with a fit of district visiting,
and would make a tour of the passages and Hall,
and the fags’ studies. Then, if the owner were
entertaining a friend or two, the first kick at the
door and ominous “Open here” had the effect
of the shadow of a hawk over a chicken-yard ;
every one cut to cover — one small boy diving
under the sofa, another under the table, while
the owner would hastily pull down a book or
two and open them, and cry out in a meek voice,
“Hullo, who’s there?” casting an anxious eye
round, to see that no protruding leg or elbow
could betray the hidden boys. “ Open, sir, di-
rectly; it’s Snooks.” “ Oh, I’m very sorry; I
didn’t know it was you, Snooks ;” and then, with
well-feigned zeal, the door would be opened,
young Hopeful praying that that beast Snooks
mightn’t have heard the scuffle caused by his
coming. If a study was empty, Snooks pro-
ceeded to draw the passages and Hall to find
the truants.

Well, one evening in forbidden hours, Tom
and East w'ere in the Hall. They occupied the
seats before the fire nearest the door, while
Diggs sprawded as usual before the farther fire.
He was busy with a copy of verses, and East
and Tom were chatting together in whispers by
the light of the fire, and splicing a favorite old
fives’-bat which had sprung. Presently a step
came down the bottom passage ; they listened a

moment, assured themselves tliat it wasn’t a
pra;postor, and then went on with their work,
and the door swung open, and in walked Flash-
man. He didn’t see Diggs, and thought it a
good chance to keep his hand in ; and as the
boys didn’t move for him, struck one of them,
to make them get out of his Avay.

“What’s that for?” growled the assaulted
one.

“Because I choose. Y'ou’ve no business
here ; go to your study.”

“You can’t send us.”

“ Can’t T ? Then I’ll thrash you if you
stay,” said Flashman, savagely.

“I say, you two,” said Diggs, from the end
of the Hall, rousing up and resting himself on
his elbow, “you’ll never get rid of that fellow
till you lick him. Go in at him, both of you —
I’ll see fair play.”

Flashman Avas taken aback, and retreated
two 'Steps. East looked at Tom. “ Shall avo
try?” said he. “Yes,” said Tom, desperately.
So the tAVO advanced on Flashman, Avith clench-
ed fists and beating hearts. They Avere about
up to his shoulder, but tough boys of their age,
and in perfect training ; Avhile he, though strong
and big, Avas in poor condition from his mon-
strous habit of stuffing and AA'ant of exercise.
CoAvard as he Avas, hoAvever, Flashman couldn’t
SAvalloAv such an insult as this ; besides he Avas
confident of having easy Avork, and so faced the
boys, saying, “You impudent young black-
guards!” Before he could finish his abuse, they
rushed in on him, and began pummelling at all
of him which they could reach. He hit out
wildly apd savagely, but the full force of his
bloAvs didn’t tell, they Avere too near him. It
was long odds, though, in point of strength, and
in another minute Tom AA'ent spinning back-
Avard over a form, and Flashman turned to de-
molish East, with a saA'age grin. But now
Diggs jumped doAvn from the table on Avhich he
had seated himself. “ Step there,” shouted he,
“ the round’s over — half minute time allowed.”

“What the is it to you ?” faltered Flash-

man, Avho began to lose heart.

“ I’m going to see fair, I tell you,” said Diggs
Avith a grin, and snapping his great red fingers ;
“ 'taint fair for you to be fighting one of them
at a time. Are you ready, Brown? Time’s
up.”

The small boys rushed in again. Closing
they saAv Avas their best chance, and Flashman
Avas Avilder and more flurried than eA’er : he
caught East by the throat, and tried to force him
back on the iron-bound table ; Tom grasped his
Avaist, and remembering the old throAV he had
learned in the Vale from Harry Winbnrn, crook-
ed his leg inside Flashman’s, and threAV his
whole weight fonvard. The three tottered for
a moment, and then over they went on to the
floor, Flashman striking his head against a form
in the Hall.

The tAvo y'oungsters sprang to their legs, but
he lay there still. They began to be frightened.
Tom stooped doAA'n, and then cried out, scared

TOM BROWN S SCHOOL DAYS.

out of his wits, “He’s bleeding awfully; come
here, East, Diggs — he’s dying!”

“Not he,” said Diggs, getting leisurely off
the table; “it’s all sham — he’s only afraid to
fight it out.”

East was as frightened as Tom. Diggs lifted
Flashman’s head, and he groaned.

“Fiddlesticks! it’s nothing but the skin
broken,” said the relentless Diggs, feeling his
head. “ Cold water and a bit of rag’s all he’ll
want.”

“Let me go,” said Flashman, surlily, sitting
up ; “I don’t w'ant your help.”

“ We’re really very sorry,” began East.

“ Wiiat’s the matter?” shouted Diggs.

‘•My skull’s fractured,” sobbed Flashman.

“ Oh, let me run for the housekeeiicr,” cried
Tom. “ What shall we do ?”

“Hang your sorrow,” answered Flashman,
holding his handkerchief to the place; “you
shall pay for this, I can tell you, both of you.”
And he walked out of the Hall.

TOM BROWN S SCHOOL DAYS.

“ He can’t be very bad,” said Tom with a deep
sigb, much relieved to see his enemy march so
well.

“Not he,” said Diggs, “and you’ll see yon
won’t be troubled with him any more. But, I
say, your head’s broken too — your collar is cover-
ed with blood.”

“Is it, though?” said Tom, putting up his
hand ; “I didn’t know it.”

“ Well, mop it up, or you’ll have your jacket
s])oilt. And you have got a nasty eye. Scud ;
you’d better go and bathe it well in cold water.”

“ Cheap enough too, if we’ve done with our
old friend Flashey,” said East, as they made off
up stairs to bathe their wounds.

They had done with Elashman in one sense,
for he never laid finger on either of them again ;
but whatever harm a spiteful heart and venom-
ous tongue could do them, he took care should
be done. Only throw dirt enough, and some of
it is sure to stick ; and so it was with the fifth
form and the bigger boys in general, with whom
he associated more or less, and they not at all.
Elashman managed to get Tom and East into
disfavor, w'hich did not wear off for some time
after the author of it had disappeared from the
School world. This event, much prayed for by
the small fry in general, took place a few months
after the above encounter. One fine summer
evening Elashman had been regaling himself oh
gin-punch, at Brownsover ; and, having exceed-
ed his usual limits, started home uproarious. He
fell in with a friend or two coming back from
bathing, proposed a glass of beer, to w'hich they
assented, the weather being hot, and they thirsty
souls, and unaw’are of the quantity of drink which
Elashman had already on board. The short re-
sult was, that Elashey became beastly drunk ;
they tried to get him along, but couldn’t; so
they chartered a hurdle and two men to carry
him. One of the masters came upon them, and
they naturally enough fled. The flight of the
rest raised the master’a suspicions, and the good
angel of the fags incited him to examine the
freight, and, after examination, to convoy the
hurdle himself up to the School-house ; and the
Doctor, who had long had his eye on Elashman,
arranged for his withdrawal next morning.

The evil that men, and boys too, do, lives
after them : Elashman was gone, but our boys,
as hinted above, still felt the effects of his hate.
Besides, they had been the movers of the strike
against unlawful fagging. The cause was right-
eous— the result had been triumphant to a great
extent ; but the best of the fifth, even those wdio
had never fagged the small boys, or had given
up the practice cheerfully, couldn’t help feeling
a small grudge against the first rebels. After
all, their form had been defied — on just grounds,
no doubt ; so just, indeed, that they had at once
acknowledged the wrong, and remained passive
in the strife ; had they sided with Elashman and
his set, the rebels must have given way at once.
They couldn’t help, on the whole, being glad
tliat they had so acted, and that the resistance
had been successful against such of their own

form as had shown fight ; they felt tliat hnv and
order had gained thereby, but the ringleaders
they couldn’t quite pardon at once. “ Con-
foundedly coxy those young rascals will get, if
we don’t mind,” was the general feeling.

So it is, and must be always, my dear boys.
If the Angel Gabriel were to come down from
heaven, and head a successful rise against the
most abominable and unrighteous vested inter-
est which this poor old world groans under, he
would most certainly lose his character for many
years, probably for centuries, not only with the
upholders of said vested interest, but with the
respectable mass of the people whom he had de-
livered. They wouldn’t ask him to dinner, or
let their names appear with his in the papers ;
they would be very careful how they spoke of him
in the Palaver, or at their clubs. What can we
expect, then, when we have only poor gallant
blundering men like Kossuth, Garibaldi, Maz-
zini, and righteous causes whieh do not triumph
in their hands ; men who have holes enough in
their armor, God knows, easy to be hit by re-
spectabilities sitting in their lounging chairs,
and having large balances at their bankers?
But you are brave gallant boys, who hate easy-
chairs, and have no balances or bankers. You
only want to have your heads set straight, to
take the right side : so bear in mind that ma-
jorities, especially respectable ones, are nine
times out of ten in the wrong ; and that if you
see a man or boy striving earnestly on the weak
side, however wrong-headed or blundering he
may be, you are not to go and join the ery against
him. If you can’t join him and help him, and
make him wiser, at any rate remember that he
has found something in the world which he will
fight and suffer for, which is just what you have
got to do for yourselves ; and so think and .speak
of him tenderly.

So East and Tom, the Tadpole, and one or
two more became a sort of young Ishmaelifes,
their hands against every one, and every one’s
hand against them. It has been already told
how they got to war with the masters and the
fifth form, and with the sixth it was much the
same. They saw the praepostors cowed by or
joining tvith the fifth, and shirking their own
duties ; so they didn’t respect them, and ren-
dered no willing obedience. It had been one
thing to clean out studies for sons of heroes like
Old Brooke, but was quite another to do the like
for Snooks and Green, who had never faced a
good scrummage at football, and couldn’t keep
the passages in order at night. So they only
slurred through their fagging just well enougli
to escape a licking, and not always that, and
got the character of sulky, unwilling fags. In
the fifth-form room, after supper, when such
matters were often discussed and arranged,
their names were for ever coming up.

“I say. Green,” Snooks began one night,
“ isn’t that new boy, Harrison, your fag?”

“Yes; why?”

“ Oh, I know something of him at home, and
should like to excuse him — will you swop?’J_

TOil BROWN’S

Who will you give me ?” ^

<3 “Well, let’s see, there’s Willis, Johnson — No,
that won’t do. Yes, I have it, there’s young
East ; I’ll give you him.”

C|‘“ Don’t you wish you may get it?” replied
Green. “I’ll give you two for Willis, if you
like.”

« “ Who, then ?” asks Snooks.

“ Hall and Brown.”

‘ ‘ Wouldn’t have ’em at a gift.” ^

Cj- ‘ ‘ Better than East, though ; for they ain’t
quite so sharp,” said Green, getting up and lean-
ing his back against the mantel-piece — he wasn’t
a bad fellow, and couldn’t help not being able
to put down the unruly fifth form. His eye
twinkled as he went on, “Did I ever tell you
how the young vagabond sold me last half?”

“No— how?”

“ Well, he never half cleaned my study out,
only just stuck the candlesticks in the cupboard,
and swept the crumbs on to the floor. So at
last I was mortal angry, and had him up, and
made him go through the whole performance
under my eyes : the dust the young scamp made
nearly choked me, and showed that he hadn’t
swept the carpet before. Well, when it was
all finished, ‘Now, young gentleman,’ says I,
‘mind, I expect this to be done every morning
— floor swept, table-cloth taken off and shaken,
and every thing dusted.’ ‘Very well,’ grunts
he. Not a bit of it, though — I was quite sure
in a day or two that he never took the table-
cloth off even. So I laid a trap for him : I
tore up sonse paper and put half a dozen bits on
my table one night, and the cloth over them as
usual. Next morning, after breakfast, up I
came, pulled off the cloth, and sure enough
there was the paper, w'hich fluttered down on to
the floor. I was in a towering rage. ‘ I’ve got
you now,’ thought I, and sent for him, while I
got out my cane. Up he came, as cool as you
please, with his hands in his pockets. ‘ Didn’t
I tell you to shake my table-cloth every morn-
ing ?’ roared I. ‘ Yes,’ says he. ‘ Did you do
it this morning?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You young liar!
I put these pieces of paper on the table last
night, and if you’d taken the table-cloth off
you’d h.ave seen them, so I’m going to give you
a good licking.’ Then my youngster takes one
hand out of his pocket, and just stoops down
and picks up two of the bits of paper, and holds
them out to me. There was written on each, in
great round text, ‘Harry East, his mark.’ The
young rogue had found my trap out, taken aw'ay
niy paper, and put some of his there, every bit
ear-marked. I’d a great mind to lick him for
his impudence, but, after all, one has no right to
be laying traps, so I didn’t. Of course I was
at his mercy till the end of the half, and in his
weeks my study was so frowzy I couldn’t sit in it.”

“They spoil one’s things so, too,” chimed in
a third boy. “Hall and Brown were night-
fags last week : I called fag, and gave them my
candlesticks to clean ; away they went, and
didn’t appear again. When they’d had lime
enough to clean them three times over, I went

SCHOOL DAYS.

out to look after them. They weren't in the
passages, so down I went into the Hall, where I
heard music, and there I found them sitting on
the table, listening to Johnson, who was play-
ing the flute, and my candlesticks stuck between
the bars well into the fire, red hot, clean spoiled ;
they’ve never stood straight since, and I must
get some more. However, I gave them both a
good licking ; that’s one comfort.”

Such were the sort of scrapes they were al-
ways getting into : and so, partly by their own
faults, partly from circumstances, partly from
the faults of others, they found themselves out-
laws, ticket-of-leave men, or what you Avill in
that line : in short, dangerous parties, and lived
the sort of hand-to-mouth, wild, reckless life
which such parties generally have to put up
with. Nevertheless, they never quite lost favor
with Young Brooke, who was now the cock of
the House, and just getting into the sixth ; and
Diggs stuck to them like a man, and gave them
store of good advice, by which they never in the
least profited.

And even after the House mended, and law and
order had been restored, which soon happened
after Young Brooke and Diggs got into the sixth,
they couldn’t easily or at once return into the
paths of steadiness, and many of the old wild
out-of-bounds habits stuck to them as firmly as
ever. While they had been quite little boys, the
scrapes they got into in the School hadn’t much
mattered to any one ; but now they w'ere in the
upper school, all wrong-doers from which were
sent up straight to the Doctor at once : so they
began to come under his notice; and as they
were a sort of leaders in a small way amongst
their own contemporaries, his eye, which was
everywhere, was upon them.

It was a toss-up whether they turned out
well or ill, and so they were just the boys who
caused most anxiety to such a master. You
have been told of the first occasion on which
they were sent up to the Doctor, and the re-
membrance of it w’as so pleasant, that they had
much less fear of him than most boys of their
standing had. “It's all his looks,” Tom used
to say to East, “that frightens fellows; don’t
you remember, he never said any thing to us
my first half-year, for being an hour late for
locking up ?”

The next time Tom came before him, how-
ever, the interview was of a very different kind.
It happened just about the time at which we
have now arrived, and was the first of a series
of scrapes into which our hero managed now to
tumble.

The river Avon at Rugby is a slow and not
very clear stream, in which chub, dace, roach, and
other coarse fish are (or were) jilcntiful enough,
together with a fair sprinkling of small jack,
but no fish worth sixpence either for sport or
food. It is, however, a capital river for bathing,
as it has many nice small pools and several
good reaches for swimming, all within about a
mile of one another, and at an easy twenty min-
utes’ walk from the school. This mile of water

TOM BROWN’S

is renteJ, or used to be rented, for bathing pur-
poses, by the Trustees of the School, for the
boys. The footpath to Brownsover crosses the
river by “ the Flanks,” a curious old single-
plank bridge, running for fifty or sixty yards
into the flat meadows on eacli side of the river
• — for in the winter there are frequent floods.
Above the Planks were the bathing-places for
the smaller boys — Sleath’s, the first bathing-
place where all new boys had to begin, until
they had proved to the bathing men (three steady
individuals who were paid to attend daily
through the summer to prevent accidents) that
they could swim pretty decently, when they were
allowed to go on to Anstey’s, about one hundred
and fifty yards below. Here there was a hole
about six feet deep and twelve feet across, over
which the puffing urchins struggled to the oppo-
site side, and thought no small beer of them-
selves for having been out of their depths. Be-
low the Planks came larger and deeper holes,
the first of which was Wratislaw’s, and the last
Swift’s, a famous hole, ten or twelve feet deep
in parts, and thirty yards across, from which
there was a fine swimming reach right down to
the Mill. Swift’s was reserved for the sixth
and fifth forms, and had a spring-board and two
sets of steps : the others had one set of steps
each, and were used indifferently by all the low-
er boys, though each House addicted itself more
to one hole tlian to another. The School-house
at this time affected Wratislaw’s hole, and Tom
and East, who had learnt to swim like fishes,
were to be found there as regular as the clock
through the summer, always twice, and often
three times, a day.

Now the hoys either had, or fancied they
had, a right also to fish at their pleasure over
the whole of this part of the river, and would
not understand that the right (if any) only ex-
tended to the Rugby side. As ill-luck would
have it, the gentleman who owned the opposite
bank, after allowing it for some time without
interference, had ordered his keepers not to let
the boys fish on his side ; the consequence of
which had been, that there had been first wrang-
lings and then fights between the keepers and
boys ; and so keen had the quarrel become, that
the landlord and his keepers, after a ducking
had been inflicted on one of the latter, and a
fierce fight ensued thereon, had been up to the
great school at calling-over to identify the de-
linquents, artd it was all the Doctor himself and
five or six masters could do to keep the peace.
Not even his authority could prevent the hissing,
and so strong was the feeling, that the four prm-
postors of the week walked up the school with
their canes, shouting s-s-s-s-i-lenc-c-c-c-e at the
top of their voices. However, the chief offend-
ers for the time were flogged and kept in bounds,
but the victorious party had brought a nice
hornet’s nest about their ears. The landlord
was hissed at the School-gates as he rode past,
and when he charged his horse at the mob of
boys, and tried to thrash them with his rvhip,
was driven I ack by cricket bats and wickets,

SCHOOL DAYS. 75

and pursued with pebbles and fives’-balls ; while
the wietched keepers’ lives were a burden to
them, from having to wateh the water so closely.

The Sehool-house boys of Tom’s standing,
one and all, as a protest against this tyranny
and eutting short of their lawful amusements,
took to fishing in all ways, and espeeially hy
means of night-lines. The little tackle-maker
at the bottom of the town would .soon have made
his fortune had the rage lasted, and several of
the barbers began to lay in fishing-tackle. The
boys had this great advantage over their ene-
mies, that they spent a large portion of the day
in nature’s garb by the river side, and so, when
tired of swimming, would get out on the other
side and fish, or set night-lines, till the keepers
hove in sight, and then plunge in and swim baek
and mix with the other bathers, and the keepers
were too wise to follow across the stream.

While things were in this state, one day Tom
and three or four others were bathing at Wratis-
law’s, and had, as a matter of course, been tak-
ing up and resetting night-lines. They had all
left the water, and were sitting or standing about
at their toilettes, in all costumes from a shirt up-
ward, Avhen they were aware of a man in a vel-
veteen shooting-coat approaching from the other
side. He was a new keeper, so they didn’t rec-
ognize or notice him, till he pulled up right op-
posite, and began : —

“I see’d some of you young gentlemen over
this side a fishing just now.”

“Hullo, who are you? what business is that
of yours, old Velveteens?”

“I’m the new under-keeper, and master’s
told me to keep a sharp look-out on all o’ you
young ehaps. And I tells ee I means business,
and you’d better keep on your own side, or we
shall fall out.”

“Well, that’s right. Velveteens — speak out
and let’s know your mind at once.”

“Look here, old boy’-,” cried East, holding
up a miserable coarse fish or two and a small
jack, “would you like to smell ’em and see
which bank they lived under ?”

“ I’ll give you a bit of advice, keeper,” shout-
ed Tom, who was sitting in his shirt paddling
with his feet in the river; “you’d better go
down there to Swift’s, where the big boys are ;
they’re beggars at setting lines, and’ll put you
up to a wrinkle or two for catching the five-
pounders.” Tom w'as nearest to the keeper,
and that officer, who was getting angry at the
chaff, fixed his eyes on our hero, as if to take a
note of him for future use. Tom returned his
gaze with a steady stare, and then broke into a
laugh, and struck into- the middle of a favorite
School-house song —

As I and my companions
Were setting of a snare,

The gamekeeper was watching us,

For him we did not care :

For we can wrestle and fight, my boys,

And jump out anywhere.

For it’s my delight of a likely night,

In the season of the year.

The chorus was taken up by the other boys

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

with shouts of laughter, and the keeper turned
away with a grunt, but evidently bent on mis-
chief. The boys thought no more of the mat-
ter.

But now came on the May-fly season : the
soft hazy summer weather lay sleepily along
the rich meadows by Avon side, and the green
and gray flies flickered with their graceful lazy
up-and-down flight over the reeds and the water
and the meadows, in myriads upon myriads.
The May-flies must surely be the lotus-eaters of
the ephemei’ie ; the happiest, laziest, carelessest
fly that dances and dreams out his few hours of
sunshiny life by English rivers.

Every little pitiful coarse flsh in the Avon
was on the alert for the flies, and gorging his
wretched carcass with hundreds daily, the glut-
tonous rogues ! and every lover of the gentle
craft was out to avenge the poor May-flies.

So one flne Thursday afternoon, Tom having
borrowed East’s new rod, started by himself to
the river. He Ashed for some time with small
success : not a flsh would rise at him ; but as he
prowled along the bank, he was presently aware
of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite
side, under the shade of a huge willow-tree.
The stream was deep here, but some flfty yards
below was a shallow, for which he made off hot-
foot ; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn
prohibitions of the Doctor, and every thing else,
pulled up his trowsers, plunged across, and in
three minutes was creeping along on all-fours
towards the clump of willows.

It isn’t often that great chub, or any other
coarse fish, are in earnest about any thing, but
just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding,
and in half an hour Master Tom had deposited
three thumping fellows at the foot of the giant
willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pound-
er, and just going to throw in again, he became
aware of a man coming up the bank not one
hundred yards off. Another look told him that
it was the under-keeper. Could he reach the
shallow before him ? No, not carrying his rod.
Nothing for it but the tree, so Tom laid his
bones to it, shinning up as fast as he could, and
dragging up his rod after him. He had just
time to reach and crouch along a huge branch
some ten feet up, which stretched out over the
river, when the keeper arrived at the clump.
Tom’s heart beat first as he came under the
tree ; two steps more and he would have passed,
Avhen, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on
the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and
he made a dead point at the foot of the tree.
He picked up the fish one by one ; his eye and
touch told him that they had been alive and
feeding within the hour. Tom crouched lower
along the branch, and heard the keeper beating
the clump. “If I could only get the rod hid-
den,” thought he, and began gently shifting it
to get it alongside of him ; “ willow-trees don’t
throw out straight hickory shoots twelve feet
long, with no leaves, worse luck!” Alas! the
keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of
the rod, and then of Tom’s hand and arm.

“ Oh, be up ther’ be ee?” says he, running
under the tree. “Now you come down this
minute.”

“Treed at last,” thinks Tom, making no an-
swer, and keeping as close as possible, but work-
ing away at tlie rod, which he takes to pieces:
“I’m in for it, unless I can starve him out.”
And then he begins to meditate getting along
the branch for a plunge, and scramble to the
other side ; but the small branches are so thick,
and the opposite bank so difficult, that the keep-
er will have lots of time to get round by the
ford before he can get out, so he gives that up.
And now he hears the keeper beginning to
scramble up the trunk. That will never do ;
so he scrambles himself back to where his
braneh joins the trunk, and stands with lifted
rod.

“ Hullo, Velveteens ! mind your fingers if you
come any higher !”

The keeper stops and looks up, and then with
a grin says, “ Oh ! be you, be it, young meas-
ter? Well, here’s luck. Now I tells ee to
come down at once, and ’t’ll be best for ee.”

“Thank ee, Velveteens, I’m very comforta-
ble,” said Tom, shortening the rod in his hand,
and preparing for battle.

“ Werry well, please yourself,” says the keep-
er, descending however to the ground again,
and taking his seat on the bank; “I bean’t in
no hurry, so you may take your time. I’ll larn
ee to gee honest folks names afore I’ve done with
ee.”

“ My luck as usual,” thinks Tom ; “ what a
fool I was to give him a black. If I’d callea
him ‘ keeper,’ now, I might get off. The re-
turn match is all his way.”

The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his
pipe, fill and light it, keeping an eye on Tom,
who now sat disconsolately across the branch,
looking at keeper — a pitiful sight for men and
fishes. The more he thought of it the less he
liked it. “ It must bo getting near second call-
ing-over,” thinks he. Keeper smokes on stolid-
ly. “ If he takes me up, I shall be flogged safe
enough. I can’t sit here all night. Wonder if
he’ll rise at silver.”

“ I say, keeper,” said he meekly, “ let me go
for two bob ?”

“Not for twenty neither,” grunts his persecu-
tor.

And so they sat on till long past second call-
ing-over, and the sun came slanting in through
the willow-branches, and telling of locking-up
near at hand.

“I’m coming down, keeper,” said Tom at
last, with a sigh, fairly tired out. “ Now, Avhat
are you going to do ?”

“Walk ee up to School, and give ee over to
the Doctor ; them’s my orders,” says Velveteens,
knocking the ashes out of his fourth pipe, and
standing up and shaking himself.

“Very good,” said Tom ; “ but hands off, j'ou
know. I’ll go with you quietly, so no collaring
or tliat sort of thing.”

Kec])er looked at him a minute — “ Werry

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

good,” said he at last ; and so Tom descended,
and wended his way drearily by the side of the
keeper up to the School-house, where they ar-
rived just at loeking-up. As they passed the
School-gates, the Tadpole and several others
who were standing there canglit the state of

things, and rushed out, crying “Rescue!” but
Tom shook his head, so they only followed to
the Doctor’s gate, and went back sorely puzzled.
How changed and stern the Doctor seemed

from the last time that Tom was up there, at
the keeper told the story, not omitting to state
how Tom had called him blackguard names.
“Indeed, sir,” broke in the culprit, “it was
only Velveteens.” The Doctor only asked one
question.

“You know the rule about the banks, Brown ?”
“ Yes, sir.”

“ Then wait for me to-morrow, after the first
lesson.”

TOM DISCOVERED DY VELVETE£^’S.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

“ I thought so,” muttered Tom.

“And about the rod, sir?” went on the keep-
er. “ Master’s told we as we might have all
the rods — ”

“Oh, please, sir,” broke in Tom, “the rod
isn’t mine.” The Doctor looked puzzled, but
the keeper, who was a good-hearted fellow, and
melted at Tom’s evident distress, gave up his
claim. Tom was flogged next morning, and a
few days afterwards met Velveteens, and pre-
sented him with half a crown for giving up the
rod claim, and they became sworn friends ; and
I regret to say that Tom had many more fish
from under the willow that May-fly season, and
was never caught again by Velveteens.

It wasn’t three weeks before Tom, and now
East by liis side, were again in the awful pres-
ence. This time, however, the Doctor was not
so terrible. A few days before, they had been
fagged at fives to fetch the balls that went off
the Court. While standing watching the game,
they saw five or six nearly new balls hit on the
top of the school. “I say, Tom,” said East,
when they were dismissed, “couldn’t we get
those balls somehow?”

“ Let’s try, anyhow.” ^

So they reconnoitred the walls carefully, bor-
rowed a coal hammer from old Stumps, bought
some big nails, and after one or two attempts
scaled the Schools, and possessed themselves of
huge quantities of fives’-balls. The place pleased
them so much that they spent all their spare
time there, scratching and cutting their names
on the top of every tower ; and at last, having
exhausted all other places, finished up with in-
scribing H. East, T. Brown, on the minute-
hand of the great clock. In the doing of which,
they held the minute-hand, and disturbed the
clock’s economy. So next morning, when mas-
ters and boys came trooping down to prayers,
and entered the quadrangle, the injured minute-
hand was indicating three minutes to the hour.
They all pulled up, and took their time. When
the hour struck, doors were closed, and half the
School late. Thomas being set to rnake in-
quiry, discovers their names on the minute-
hand, and reports accordingly; and they are
sent for, a knot of their friends making derisive
and pantomimic allusions to what their fate will
be, as they walk off.

But the Doctor, after hearing their story,
doesn’t make much of it, and only gives them
thirty lines of Homer to learn by heart, and a
lecture on the likelihood of such exploits ending
in broken bones.

Alas ! almost the next day was one of the
great fairs in the town ; and as several rows and
other disagreeable accidents had of late taken
place on these occasions, the Doctor gives out,
after prayers in the morning, that no boy is to
go down into the town. Wherefore East and
Tom, for no earthly pleasure except that of
doing what they are told not to do, start away,
after second lesson, and making a short circuit
through the fields, strike a back lane which
leads into the town, go down it, and run plump

upon one of the masters as they emerge into the
High Street. The master in question, though a
very clever, is not a righteous man : he has al-
ready caught several of his own pupils, and gives
them lines to learn, while he sends East and
Tom, who are not his pu))ils, up to the Doctor;
who, on learning that they had been at prayers
in the morning, flogs them soundly.

The flogging did them no good at the time,
for the injustice of their captor was rankling in
their minds ; but it was just the end of the half,
and on the next evening but one Thomas knocks
at their door, and says the Doctor wants to setf
them. They look at one another in silent dis-
may. What can it be now ? Which of their
countless wrong-doings can he have heard of
officially ? However, it’s no use delaying, so
up they go to the study. There they find the
Doctor, not angry, but very grave. “ He has
sent for them to speak to very seriously before
they go home. They have each been flogged
several times in the half-year for direct and will-
ful breaches of rules. This can not go on. They
are doing no good to themselves or others, and
now they are getting up in the School, and have
influence. They seem to think that rules are
made capriciously, and for the pleasure of the
masters ; but this is not so, they are made for
the good of the whole School, and must and
shall be obeyed. Those who thoughtlessly or
willfully break them will not be allowed to stay
at the School. He should be sorry if they had
to leave, as the School might do them both
much good, and wishes them to think very se-
riously in the holidays over what he has said.
Good-night.”

And so the two hurry off horribly scared ;
the idea of having to leave has never crossed
their minds and is quite unbearable.

As they go out, they meet at the door old
Holmes, a sturdy cheery praepostor of another
house, who goes in to the Doctor ; and they hear
his genial hearty greeting of the new-comer, so
different to their own reception, as the door
closes, and return to their study with heavy
hearts, and tremendous resolves to break no
more rules.

Five minutes afterwards the master of their
form, a late arrival and a model yonng master,
knocks at the Doctor’s study-door, “ Come in !”
and as he enters the Doctor goes on to Holmes
— “you seel do not know any thing of the case
officially ; and if I take any notice of it at all^ I
must publicly expel the boy. I don’t wish to
do that, for I think there is some good in him.
There’s nothing for it bnt a good sound thrash-
ing.” He paused to shake hands with the mas-
ter, which Holmes does also, and then prepares
to leave.

“I understand. Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night, Holmes. And remember,” add-
ed the Doctor, emjdiasizing the words, “ a good
sound thrashing before the whole house.”

The door closed on Holmes ; and the Doctor,
in answer to the puzzled look of his lieutenant,
explained shortly.

TOM BROWN S

“A gross case of bullying. Wharton, the
head of the house, is a very good fellow, but
slight and weak, and severe physical pain is the
only way to deal with such a case ; so I have
asked Holmes to take it up. He is very care-
ful and trustworthy, and has plenty of strength.
I wish all the sixth had as much. We must
have it here, if we are to keep order at all.”

Now, I don’t want any wiseacres to read this
book ; but if they should, of course they will
prick up their long ears, and howl, or rather
bray, at the above story. Very good, I don’t
6'bject ; but what I have to add for you boys is
this, that Holmes called a levy of his house af-
ter breakfast next morning, made them a speech
on the case of bullying in question, and then
gave the bully a “ good sound thrashing and
that years afterwards, that boy sought out
Holmes, and thanked him, saying it had been
the kindest act which had ever been done upon
him, and the turning-point in his character;
and a very good fellow he became, and a credit
to his School.

After some other talk between them, the Doc-
tor said, “I want to speak to you about two
boys in your form, East and Brown : I have just
been speaking to them. What do you think of
them ?”

“Well, they are not hard workers, and very
thoughtless and full of spirits — but I can’t help

SCHOOL DAYS. 79

liking them. I think they are sound good fel-
lows at the bottom.”

“I’m glad of it. I think so too. But they
make me very uneasy. They are taking the
lead a good deal amongst the fags in my house,
for they are very active, bold fellows. I should
be sorry to lose them, but I shan't let them stay
if I don’t sec them gaining character and man-
liness. In another year they may do great
harm to all the younger boys.”

“Oh, I hope you won’t send them away,”
pleaded their master,

“Not if I can help it. But now I ncA’er feel
sure, after any half-holiday, that I shan’t have
to flog one of them next morning, for some
foolish, thoughtless scrape. I quite dread see-
ing cither of them.”

They were both silent for a minute. Pres-
ently the Doctor began again : —

“They don’t feel that they have any duty or
work to do in the School, and how is one to
make them feel it?”

“I think if either of them had some little
boy to take care of, it would steady them.
Brown is the most reckless of the two, I should
say ; East wouldn’t get into so many scrapes
without him.”

“Well,” said the Doctor, with something
like a sigh, “I’ll think of it.” And they went
on to talk of other subjects.

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Tom Brown’S School Days

II.

JSAbX AiSI> MBS. WIXIE.

CHAPTER I.

HOW THE TIDE TURNED.

“ I [hold] it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,

That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things."

Tennyson.

“ Once to every man and nation, comes the moment to
decide.

In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or
evil side:

Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward
stands aside.

Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified."

Lowell.

The turning-point in our hero’s school ca-
reer had now come, and the manner of it
was as follows : On the evening of the first day
of the next half-year, Tom, East, and another
SchooL house boy, who had just been dropped
at the Spread Eagle by the old Regulator, rushed
into the matron’s room in high spirits, such as
all real boys are in when they first get back,
however fond they may be of home.

“Well, Mrs. Wixie,” shouted one, seizing
on the methodical, active little dark -eyed
woman, who was busy stowing away the linen
of the boys who had already arrived into
their several pigeon - holes, “ here we are
again, you see, as jolly as ever. Let us help
you put the things away.”

“And, Mary,” cried another (she was
called indifferently by either name), “who’s
come back ? Has the Doctor made old
Jones leave ? How many new boys are
there ?”

“Am I and East to have Gray’s study?
Y'ou know you promised to get it for us if
you could,” shouted Tom.

“And am I to sleep in Number 4 ?” roared
East.

“How’s old Sam, and Bogle, and Sally ?”
“ Bless the boys !” cries Mary, at last get-
ting in a word, “why, you’ll shake me to
death. There, now do go away up to the
housekeeper’s room, and get your suppers,
you know I haven’t time to talk — you’ll find
])lenty more in the house. Now, Master
East, do let those things alone — you’re mix-
ing up three new boys’ things.” And she
rushed at East, who esc.aped round the open
trunks holding up a/ prize.

“ Hullo, look here. Tommy,” shouted he,
“here’s fun!” and he brandished above his
head some pretty little nightcaps, beautifully
made and marked, the work of loving fingers
in some distant country home. The kind
mother and sisters who sewed that delicate
stitching with aching hearts, little thought of
the trouble they might be bringing on the
young head for which they were meant. The
little matron was wiser, and snatched the caps
from East befoi'e he could look at the name on
them.

“Now, Master East, I shall be very angry
if you don’t go,” said she ; “there’s some ca, ital
cold beef and pickles up stairs, and I won’t have
you old boys in my room first night.”

“Hurrah for the pickles! Come along.
Tommy; come along. Smith. We shall find
out who the young Count is. I’ll be bound ; I
hope he’ll sleep in my room. Mary’s always
vicious first week.”

As the boys turned to leave the room, the

TOM BEOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

matron touched Tom’s arm, and said, “Master
Brown, please stop a minute, I want to speak to
you.”

“ Very well, Mary. I'll come in a minute,
East ; don’t finish the pickles — ”

he don’t look it. He's very delicate, and has
never been from home before. And I told Mrs.
Arnold I thought you’d be kind to him, and see
that they don’t bully him at first. He’s put
into your form, and I’ve given him the bed next

tom’s first SIGUT of ARTHUR.

“ Oh, Master Brown,” went on the little
matron, when the rest had gone, “you’re to
have Gray’s study, Mrs. Arnold says. And she
wants you to take in tliis young gentleman.
He's a new hoy, and thirteen years old, though

to yours in number 4 ; so East can't sleep there
this half.”

Tom was rather put about by thivS speech,
lie had got the double study which he coveted,
but licre were conditions attached which greatly

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

moderated his joy. He looked across the room,
and in the far corner of the sofa was aware of a
slight pale boy, with large blue eyes and light
fair hair, who seemed ready to shrink through
the floor. He saw at a glance that the little
stranger was just the boy whose first half-year
at a public school would be misery to himself if
he were left alone, or constant anxiety to any
one who meant to see him through liis troubles.
Tom was too honest to take in the youngster and
then let him shift for himself ; and if he took
him as his chum instead of East, where were
all his pet plans of having a bottled-beer cellar
under his window, and making night-lines and
slings, and plotting expeditions to Brownsover
Mills and Caldecott’s Spinney ? East and he
had made up their minds to get this study, and
then every night from locking-up till ten they
would be together to talk about fishing, drink
bottled-beer, read Marryat’s novels, and sort
birds’ eggs. And this new boy would most like-
ly never go out of the close, and would be afraid
of wet feet, and always getting laughed at, and
called Molly, or Jenny, or some derogatory fem-
inine nickname.

The matron watched him for a moment, and
saw what was passing in his mind, and so, like
a wise negotiator, threw in an appeal to his
warm heart. “ Poor little fellow,” said she in
almost a whisper, “ his father’s dead, and he’s
got no brothers. And his mamma, such a kind
sweet lady, almost broke her heart at leaving
liim this morning; and she said one of his sis-
ters was like to die of decline, and so — ”

“ Well, well,” burst in Tom, with something
like a sigh at the effort, “I suppose I must give
up East. Come along, young un. What’syour
name? We’ll go and have some supper, and
then I’ll show you our study.”

“His name’s George Arthur,” said the ma-
tron, walking up to him with Tom, who grasped
his little delicate hand as the proper preliminary
to making a chum of him, and felt as if he could
have blown him away. “ I’ve had his books
and things put into the study, which his mam-
ma has had new papered, and the sofa covered,
and new green-baize curtains over the door.”
(The diplomatic matron threw this in, to show
that the new boy was contributing largely to the
partnership comforts.) “ And Mrs. Arnold told
me to say,” she added, “ that she should like
you both to come up to tea with her. You know
the way, Master Brown, and the things are just
gone up, I know.”

Here was an announcement for Master Tom !
He was to go up to tea the first night, just as
if he were a sixth or fifth form boy, and of im-
portance in the school world, instead of the most
reckless young scapegrace amongst the fags.
He felt himself lifted on to a higher social
and moral platform at once. Nevertheless, he
couldn’t give up without a sigh the idea of the
jolly supper in the housekeeper’s room with East
and the vest, and a rush round to all tlie studies
of his friends afterwards, to pour out the deeds
and wonders of the holidays, to plot fifty plans

for the coming half-year, and to gather new's of
who had left, and what new boys had come, who
had got who’s study, and where the new prae-
postors slept. However, Tom consoled Iiimself
with thinking that he couldn’t have done all
this with the new boy at his heels, and so march-
ed off along the passages to the Doctor’s private
house with his young charge in tow, in monstrous
good humor with himself and all the world.

It is needless, and would be impertinent, to
tell how the two young boys were received in
that drawing-room. The lady who presided there
is still living, and has carried with her to her
peaceful home in the North the respect and love
of all those who ever felt and shared that gentle
and high-bred hospitality. Ay, many is the
brave heart now doing its work and bearing its
load in country curacies, London chambers, un-
der the Indian sun, and in Australian towns and
clearings, which looks back with fond and grate-
ful memory to that School-house drawing-room,
and dates much of its highest and best training
to the lessons learnt there.

Besides Mrs. Arnold and one or two of the
elder children, there were one of the younger
masters. Young Brooke, who was now in the
sixth, and had succeeded to his brother’s posi-
tion and influence, and another sixth-form boy,
talking together before the fire. The master
and Young Brooke, now a great strapping fellow
six feet high, eighteen years old, and powerful
as a coal-heaver, nodded kindly to Tom, to his
intense glory, and then went on talking; the
other did not notice them. The hostess, after a
few kind words, which led the boys at once and
insensibly to feel at their ease, and to begin
talking to one another, left them with her own
children while she finished a letter. The young
ones got on fast and well, Tom holding forth
about a prodigious pony he had been riding out
hunting, and hearing stories of the winter glo-
ries of the lakes, when tea came in, and imme-
diately after the Doctor himself.

How frank, and kind, and manly was his
greeting to the party by the fire ! It did Tom’s
heart good to see him and Young Brooke shake
hands and look one another in the face ; and he
didn’t fail to remark, that Brooke was nearly as
tall and quite as broad as the Doctor. And
his cup was full, when in another moment his
master turned to him with another warm shake
of the hand, and, seemingly oblivious of all the
late scrapes which he had been getting into, said,
“ Ah, Brown, you here! I hope you left your
father and all well at home?”

“Yes, sir, quite well.”

“And this is the little fellow who is to share
your study. Well, he doesn’t look as we should
like to see him. He wants some Rugby air, and
cricket. And you must take him some good long
walks, to Bilton Grange, and Caldecott’s Spin-
ney, and show him what a little pretty country
we have about here.”

Tom wondered if the Doctor knew that his
visits to Bilton Grange were for the purpose of
taking rooks’ nests (a proceeding strongly dis-

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

countenanced by the owner thereof), and those
to Caldecott’s Spinney were prompted chiefly by
the conveniences for setting night-lines. What
didn’t the Doctor know ! And what a noble use
he always made of it! He almost resolved to
abjure rook-pies and night-lines forever. The
tea went merrily off, the Doctor now talking of I
holiday doings, and then of the prospects of the
half-year, what chance there was for the Balliol
scholarship, whether the eleven would be a good
one. Every body was at his ease, and every
body felt that he, young as he might be, was of
some use in the little School world, and had a
work to do there.

Soon after tea the Doctor went off to his study,
and the young boys a few minutes afterwards
took their leave, and went out of the private door
which led from the Doctor’s house into the mid-
dle passage.

At the fire, at the farther end of the passage,
was a crowd of boys in loud talk and laughter.
There was a sudden pause when the door opened,
and then a great shout of greeting, as Tom was
recognized marching down the passage.

“Hullo, Brown, where do you come from?”
“ Oh, I’ve been to tea with the Doctor,” says
Tom, with great dignity.

“ My eye 1” cried East. “ Oh ! so that’s why
Mary called you back, and you didn’t come to
supper. You lost something — that beef and
pickles was no end good.”

“I say, young fellow,” cried Hall, detecting
Arthur, and catching him by the collar, “ what’s
your name? Where do you come from ? How'
old are you?”

Tom saw Arthur shrink back, and look scared
as all the group turned to him, but thought it best
to let him answer, just standing by his side to
support in case of need.

“Arthur, sir. I come from Devonshire.”

“ Don’t call me ‘ sir,’ you young muff! How
old are you ?”

“ Thirteen.”

“ Can you sing ?”

The poor boy was trembling and hesitating.
Tom struck in — “ You be hanged. Tadpole.
He’ll have to sing, whether he can or not, Sat-
urday twelve weeks, and that’s long enough off'
yet.”

“ Do you know him at home, Browm ?”

“ No ; but he’s my chum in Gray’s old study,
and it’s near prayer-time, and I haven’t had a
look at it yet. Come along, Arthur.”

Aw’ay went the two, Tom longing to get his
charge safe under cover, where he might advise
him on his deportment.

“What a queer chum for Tom Brown,” was
tiie comment at the fire ; and it must be confessed
so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his can-
dle, and surveyed the new' green-bake curtains
and the carpet and sofa with much satisfaction.

“I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is
to make us so cosy! But look here now : you
must answer straight up when the fellows speak
to you, and don’t be afraid. If you’re afraid,
you’ll get bullied. And don’t you say you can

sing ; and don’t you ever talk about home, or
your mother and sisters.”

Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.

“But please,” said he, “mayn’t I talk about —
home to you ?”

“ Oh yes, I like it. But don’t talk to boys
you don’t know, or they’ll call you home-sick, or
mamma’s darling, or some such stuff. What a
jolly desk ! is that yours ? And what stunning
binding ! why, your school-books look like nov-
els.” %

And Tom was soon deep in Arthur’s goods
and chattels, all new and good enough for a fifth-
form boy, and hardly thought of his friends out-
side till the prayer-bell rang.

I have already described the School-house
prayers ; they were the same on the first night
as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused
by the absence of those boys who came late, and
the line of new boys who stood all together at the
farther table — of all sorts and sizes, like young
bears with all their trouble to come, as Tom’s
father had said to him when he was in the same
position. He thought of it as he looked at the
line, and poor little slight Arthur standing with
them, and as he was leading him up stairs to
Number 4, directly after prayers, and showdng
him his bed. It w'as a huge high airy room,
with two large wdndows looking on to the School
close. There were tw'elve beds in the room ; the
one in the farthest corner by the fire-place occu-
jiied by the sixth-form boy who was responsible
for the discipline of the room, and the rest by
boys in the lower fifth and other junior forms,
all fags (for the fifth-form boys, as has been said,
slept in rooms by themselves). Being fags, the
eldest of them tvas not more than about sixteen
years old, and were all bound to be up and in
bed by ten ; the sixth-form boys came to bed from
ten to a quarter-past (at which time the old ver-
ger came round to put the candles out), except
when they sat up to read.

Within a few minutes therefore of their entry,
all the other boys who slept in Number 4 had
come up. The little fellows went quietly to their
own beds, and began undressing and talking to
each other in whispers ; while the elder, amongst
whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one an-
other’s beds, with their jackets and waistcoats
off. Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with
the novelty of his position. The idea of sleep-
ing in the room with strange boys had clearly
never crossed his mind before, and was as pain-
ful as it was strange to him. He could hardly
bear to take his jacket off"; however, presently,
with an effort, off it came, and then he paused
and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bot-
tom of his bed talking and laughing.

“Please, Brown,” he whispered, “may I
wash my face and hands ?’’

“ Of course, if you like,” said Tom, staring ;
“that’s your washhand-stand, under the win-
dow, second from your bed. You’ll have to go <
down for more tvater in the morning if you use
it all.” And on he went with his talk, while
Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

to liis washhand-stand, and began his ablutions,
thereby drawing for a moment on himself the
attention of the room.

On went the talk and laughter. Arthur fin-
ished his w’ashing and undressing, and put on

the poor little lonely boy ; howerer, this time he
didn’t ask Tom what he might or might not do,
but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he
had done every day from his childhood, to open
his heart to Him who heareth the cry and bear

his night-gown. He then looked round more
nervously than ever. Two or three of the little
boys were already in bed, sitting up with their
chins on their knees. The light burned clear,
tiie noise went on. It was a trying moment for

eth the sorrows of the tender child, and t!ic
strong man in agony.

Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed un-
lacing his boots, so that his back was towards
Arthur, and he didn’t see what had happened,

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence.
Then two or three boys laughed and sneered,
and a big brutal fellow, who was standing in the
middle of the room, picked up a slipper, and
shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him a sniv-
elling young shaver. Then Tom saw the whole,
and the next moment the boot he had just pulled
off flew straight at the head of the bully, who had
just time to throw up his arm and catch it on
Iffs elbow.

“Confound you. Brown, what’s that for?”
roared he, stamping with pain.

“Never mind what I mean,” said Tom, step-
I>ing on to the floor, every drop of blood in his
body tingling; “if any fellow wants the other
boot, he knows how to get it.”

What would have been the result is doubtful,
for at this moment the sixth-form boy came in,
and not another word could be said. Tom and
the rest rushed into bed and finished their un-
robing there, and the old verger, as punctual as
the clock, had put out the candle in another
minute, and toddled on to the next room, shut-
ting their door with his usual “ Good-night,
gen’Im’n.”

There were many boys in the room by whom
that little scene was taken to heart before they
slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the
pillow of poor Tom. For some time his excite-
ment, and the flood of memories which chased
one another through his brain, kept him from
thinking or resolving. His head throbbed, his
heart leaped, and he could hardly keep himself
from springing out of bed and rushing about the
room. Then the thought of his own mother
came across him, and the promise he had made
at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel
by his bedside, and give himself up to his Fa-
ther, before he laid his head on the pillow, from
which it might never rise ; and he lay down
gently and cried as if his heart would break.
He was only fourteen years old.

It was no light act of courage in those days,
my dear boys, fora little fellow to say his prayers
publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later,
when Arnold’s manly piety had begun to leaven
the school, the tables turned ; before he died,
in the School-house at least, and I believe in
the other house, the rule was the other way.
But poor Tom had come to school in other
times. The first few nights after he came he
did not kneel down because of the noLse, but
sat up in bed till the candle was out, and then
stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some
one should find him out. So did many another
poor little fellow. Then he began to think that
he might just as well say his prayers in bed, and
then that it didn’t matter whether he was kneel-
ing, or sitting, or lying down. And so it had
come to pass with Tom, as with all who will not
confess their Lord before men ; and for the last
year he had probably not said his prayers in
earnest a dozen times.

Poor Tom ! the first and bitterest feeling
which was like to break his heart was the sense
of his own cowardice. The vice of all others

which he loathed was brought in ami !)urned in
on his own soul. He had lied to his mother,
to his conscience, to his God. How could he
bear it? And then the poor little weak boy,
whom he had pitied and almost scorned for his
weakness, had done that which he, braggart as
he was, dared not do. The first dawn of com'
fort came to him in swearing to himself that he
would stand by that boy through thick and thi!t,
and cheer him, and help him, and bear his buir
dens, for the good deed done that night. Ther
he resolved to write home next day and tell hi?
mother all, and what a coward her son had
been. And then peace came to him as he rc'
solved, lastly, to bear his testimony next morn'
ing. The morning would be harder than the
night to begin with, but he felt that he could
not afford to let one chance slip. Several times
he faltered, for the devil showed him first
all his old friends calling him “ Saint ” and
“ Square-toes,’’ and a dozen hard names, and
whispered to him that his motives would be
misunderstood, and he would only be left alone
with the new boy ; whereas it was his duty to
keep all means of influence, that he might do
good to the largest number. And then came
the more subtle temptation. “ Shall I not be
showing myself braver than others by doing
this? Hav'e I any right to begin it now?
Ought I not rather to pray in my own study,
letting other boys know that I do so, and trying
to lead them to it, while in public at least I
should go on as I have done?” However, his
good angel was too strong that night, and he
turned on liis side and slept, tired of trying to
reason, but resolved to follow the impulse which
had been so strong, and in which he had found
peace.

Next morning he was up and washed and
dressed, all but his jacket and waistcoat, just as
the ten minutes’ bell began to ring, and then in
the face of the whole room knelt down to pray.
Not five words could he say — the bell mocked
him ; he was listening for every whisper in the
room — what were they all thinking of him ? He
was ashamed to go on kneeling, ashamed to rise
from his knees. At last, as it were from his in-
most heart, a still small voice seemed to breathe
forth the words of the publican, “God be mer-
ciful to me a sinner!” He repeated them over
and over, clinging to them as for his life, and
rose from his knees comforted and humbled, and
ready to face the Avhole world. It was not need-
ed : two other boys besides Arthur had already
followed his example, and he went down to the
great School with a glimmering of another les-
son in his heart — the lesson that he who has
conquered his own coward spirit has conquered
the whole outward world ; and that other one
which the old prophet learnt in the cave in
Mount Horeb, when he hid his face, and the
still small voice asked, “ What doest thou here,
Elijah ?” that however we may fancy ourselves
alone on the side of good, the King and Lord
of men is nowhere without his witnesses ; for in
every society, however seemingly corrupt and

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

godless, there are those who have not bowed
the knee to Baal.

He found, too, how greatly he had exagger-
ated the etc ct to be produced by his act. For
a few nights tiiere was a sneer or a laugh when
he knelt down, but this passed oft" soon, and
one by one all tlie otlier boys but three or four
followed the lead. I fear tliat this was in some
measure owing to the fact, that Tom could
probably have thrashed any boy in the room
except the praepostor; at any rate, every boy
knew that he would try upon very slight provo-
cation, and didn’t choose to run the risk of a
hard fight because Tom Brown had taken a fan-
cy to say his prayers. Some of the small boys
of Number 4 communicated the new state of
tilings to their chums, and in several other
rooms the poor little fellows tried it on ; in one
instance or so, where the praspostor heard of it
and interfered very decidedly, with partial suc-
cess ; but in the rest, after a short struggle, the
confessors were bullied or laughed down, and
the old state of things went on for some time
longer. Before either Tom Brown or Arthur
left the School-house, there was no room in
which it had not become the regular custom.
I trust it is so still, and that the old heathen
state of things has gone out forever.

CHAPTER II.

THE NEW BOY.

“And Heaven’s rich instincts in him grew,

As effortless as woodland nooks

Send violets up and paint them blue." — Lowell.

I DO not mean to recount all the little troub-
les and annoyances which thronged upon Tom
at the beginning of this half-year, in his new

TOM AND AETllUIi IN CLOISTEB.

character of bear-leader to a gentle little boy
straight from home. He seemed to himself to
have become a new boy again, without any of
the long-suffering and meekness indispensable
for supporting that character with moderate
success. From morning till night he had the
feeling of responsibility on his mind; and, even
if he left Arthur in their study or in the close
for an hour, was never at ease till he had him
in sight again. Ho waited for him at the doors
of the school after every lesson and every call-
ing-over ; watched that no tricks were played
him, and none but the regulation questions
asked; kept his eye on his plate at dinner and
breakfast, to see that no unfair depredations
were made upon his viands ; in short, as East
remarked, cackled after him like a hen with one
chick.

Arthur took a long time thawing too, which
made it all the harder work ; was sadly timid ;
scarcely ever spoke unless Tom spoke to him
first ; and, worst of all, would agree with him
in every thing, the hardest thing in the world
for a Brown to bear. He got quite angry some-
times, as they sat together of a night in their
study, at this provoking habit of agreement,
and was on the point of breaking out a dozen
times with a lecture upon the propriety of a fel-
low having a will of his own and speaking out,
but managed to restrain himself by the thought
that he might only frighten Arthur, and the re-
membrance of the lesson he had learnt from him
on his first night at Number 4. Then he would
resolve to sit still, and not say a w'ord till Ar-
thur began ; but he was always beat at that
game, and had presently to begin talking in
despair, fearing lest Arthur might think he was
vexed at something if he didn’t, and dog-tired
of sitting tongue-tied.

It was hard work ! But Tom had taken
it up, and meant to stick to it, and go
through with it, so as to satisfy himself; in
which resolution he was much assisted by
the chaffing ofEast and his other old friends,
who began to call him “dry-nurse," and
otherwise to break their small wit on him.
But when they took other ground, as they
did every now and then, Tom was sorely
puzzled.

“Tell j’ou what, Tommy," East would
say, “you’ll spoil young Hopeful w'ith too
much coddling. Why can’t you let him go
about by himself and find his owm level?
He’ll never be w'orth a button, if you go on
keeping him under your skirts.”

“Well, but he ain’t fit to fight his own
way yet ; I’m trying to get him to it every
day — but he’s very odd. Poor little beggar !
I can’t make him out a bit. He ain’t a
bit like any thing I’ve ever seen or heard
of— he seems all over nerves ; any thing
you say seems to hurt him like a cut or a
blow.”

“That sort of boy’s no use here,” said
East ; “ he’ll only spoil. Now, I’ll tell you
what to do, Tommy. Go and get a nice

TOM BEOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

large band -box made, and put him in with
plenty of cotton-wool, and a pap-bottle, labelled
‘With care — this side up,’ and send him back
to mamma.”

“I think I shall make a hand of him,
though,” said Tom, smiling, “say what you
will. There’s something about him, every now
and then, which shows me he’s got pluck some-
where in him. That’s the only thing, after all,
that’ll wash, ain’t it, old Scud ? But how to
get at it and bring it out ?”

Tom took one hand out of his breeches-pock-
et and stuck it in his back hair for a scratch,
giving his hat a tilt over his nose, his one meth-
od of invoking wisdom. He stared at the ground
with a ludicrously puzzled look, and presently
looked up and met East’s eyes. That young
gentleman slapped him on the back, and then
put his arm round his shoulder, as they strolled
through the quadrangle together. “Tom,”
said he, “ blest if you ain’t the best old fellow
ever was — I do like to see you go into a thing.
Hang it, I wish I could take things as you do,
but I never ean get higher than a joke. Every
thing's a joke. If I was going to be flogged
next minute, I should be in a blue funk, but
I couldn’t help laughing at it for the life of
me.”

“ Brown and East, you go and fag for Jones
on the great fives’-court.”

“ Hullo, tho’, that’s past a joke,” broke out
East, springing at the young gentleman who
addressed them, and catching him by the col-
lar. “ Here, Tommy, catch hold of him t’oth-
er side before he can holla.”

The youth was seized, and dragged strug-
gling out of the quadrangle into the Sehool-
- house hall. He was one of the miserable little
pretty white-handed curly-headed boys, petted
and pampered by some of the big fellows, who
wrote their verses for them, taught them to
drink and use bad language, and did all they
could to spoil them for every thing * in this
world and the next. One of the avocations in
which these young gentlemen took particular
delight was in going about and getting fags for
their protectors, when those heroes were playing
any game. They carried about pencil and pa-
per with them, putting down the names of all
the boys they sent, always sending five times
as many as were wanted, and getting all those
thrashed who didn’t go. The present youth be-
longed to a house which was very jealous of the
School-house, and always picked out School-
house fags when he could find them. However,
this time he’d got the wrong sow by the ear.
His captors slammed the great door of the hall,
and East put his back against it, while Tom
gave the prisoner a shake-up, took away his list,
and stood him up on tJie floor, while he pro-
ceeded leisurely to examine that document.

* A kind and wise critic, an old Ru^bcean, notes here
in the mari^in, “ The smah-friend system was not so ut-
terly bad from 1S41-184T.” Before tliat, too, tliere were
many noble friendships between big and little boys, but
I can’t strike out the pass.age ; many boys will know why
it is left in.

“Let me out ! let me go !” screamed the boy
in a furious passion. “ I’ll go and tell Jones

this minute, and he’ll give you both the

thrashing you ever had.”

“Pretty little dear,” said East, patting the
top of his hat; “hark how he swears, Tom.
Nicely brought-up young man, ain’t he, I don’t
think.” ^

“Let me alone, you,” roared the boy,

foaming with rage, and kicking at East, who
quietly tripped him up, and deposited him on
the floor in a place of safety.

“Gently, young fellow,” said he; “’tain’t
improving for little whippersnappers like you to
be indulging in blasphemy ; so you stop that,
or you’ll get something you won’t like.”

“I’ll have you both licked when I get out,
that I will,” rejoined the boy, beginning to
snivel.

“Two can play at that game, mind you,” said
Tom, who had finished his examination of the
list. “ Now you just listen here. We’ve just
come across the fives’-court, and Jones has four
fags there already, two more than he wants. If
he’d wanted us to change, he’d have stopped us
himself. And here, you little blackguard, you’ve
got seven names down on your list besides ours,
and five of them School-house.” Tom walked
up to him and jerked him on to his legs ; he
was by this time whining like a whipped pup-

py-

“Now just listen to me. We ain’t going to
fag for Jones. If you tell him you’ve sent ub,
wc’Il each of us give you such a thrashing as
you’ll remember.” And Tom tore up the list
and threw the pieces into the fire.

“And mind you, too,” said East, “ don’t let
me catch you again sneaking about the School-
; house, and picking up our fags. You haven’t
got the sort of hide to take a sound licking kind-
ly ;” and he opened the. door and sent the young
gentleman flying into the quadrangle, with a
parting kick.

“Nice boy. Tommy,” said East, shoving his
hands in his pockets and strolling to the fire.

“Worst sort we breed,” responded Tom, fol-
lowing bis example. “ Thank goodness, no big
fellow ever took to petting me.”

“ You’d never have been like that,” said East.
“I should like to have put him in a museum:
Christian young gentlerhan, nineteenth cent-
ury, highly educated. Stir him up with a long
pole, Jack, and hear him swear like a drunken
sailor ! He’d make a respectable public open
its eyes, I think.”

“Think he’ll tell Jones?” said Tom.

“No,” said East. “Don’t care if he does.”

“ Nor I,” said Tom. And they went back to
talk about Arthur.

The young gentleman had brains enough not
to tell Jones, reasoning that East and Brown,
who were noted as some of the toughest fags in
the school, wouldn’t care three straws for any
licking Jones might give them, and would be
likely to keep their words as to passing it on
with intei’est.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

8?)

After the above conversation, East came a
good deal to their study, and took notice 'of Ar-
thur ; and soon allowed to Tom that he Avas a
thorough little gentleman, and Avould get over
his shyness all in good time ; which much com-
forted our hero. He felt every day, too, the
value of having an object in his life, something
that drew him out of himself ; and, it being the
dull time of the year, and no games going about
for which he much cared, was happier than he
had ever yet been at school, Avhich was saying
a great deal.

The time which Tom allowed himself away
from his charge was from locking-up till supper-
time. During this hour or hour and a half he
used to take his fling, going round to the studies
of all his acquaintance, sparring or gossiping in

shut the door at once and sat down on the sofa
by Arthur, putting his arm round his neck.

“ Why, young un ! what’s the matter ?” said
he, kindly ; “you ain’t unhappy, are you ?”

“ Oh no. Brown,” said the little boy, looking
up with the great tears in his eyes; “you are
so kind to me. I’m veiy happy.”

“ Why don’t you call me Tom ? lots of boys
do that I don’t like half so much as you. What
are you reading, then ? Hang it, you must
come about with me, and not mope yourself,”
and Tom cast doAvn his eyes on the book, and
saw it was the Bible. He was silent for a min-
ute, and thought to himself, “Lesson Number
2, Tom Brown and then said gently —

“I’m very glad to see this, Arthur, and
asliamed that I don’t read the Bible more my-

TO-M COMFOKTING AliTllUU.

the hall, now jumping the old iron-bound tables,
or carving a bit of his name on them, then join-
ing in some chorus of merry voices; in fact,
blowing off his steam, as we should now call it.

This process was so congenial to his temper,
and Arthur showed himself so pleased at the ai--
rangement, that it was several weeks before Tom
was ever in their study before supper. One even-
ing, however, he rushed in to look for an old
chisel, or some corks, or other article essential
to his pursuit for the time being, and, while
rummaging about in the cupboards, looked up
for a moment, and was caught at once by the
figure of poor little Arthur. The boy Avas sit-
ting Avith his elboAvs on the table, and his head
leaning on his hands, and before him an open
book, on Avhich his tears were falling fast. Tom

self. Do you read it every night before supper
Avhile I’m out?”

“Yes.”

“ Well, I Avish you’d Avait till afterAvards, and
then Ave’d read together. But, Arthur, Avhy
does it make you cry?”

“ Oh, it isn’t that I’m unhappy. But at
home, Avhile my father aa’us alive, Ave alwaA's
read the lessons after tea ; and I love to read
them oA-er noAA', and try to remember Avhat he
said about them. I can’t remember all, and I
think I scarcely understand a great deal of Avhat
I do remember. But it all comes back to me so
fresh, that I can’t help crying sometimes to think
I shall ncA'er read them again Avirh him.”
Arthur had never spoken of his home before^
and Tom hadn’t encouraged him to do so, as

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

liis blundering schoolboy reasoning made him
think that Arthur would be softened and less
manly for thinking of home. But now he was
fairly interested, and forgot all about chisels and
bottled beer; while with very little encourage-
ment Arthur launched into his home history,
and the prayer-bell put them both out sadly
when it rang to call them to the hall.

From this time Arthur constantly spoke of his
home, and, above all, of his father, who had
been dead about a year, and whose memory
Tom soon got to love and reverence almost as
much as his own son did.

Arthur’s father had been the clergyman of a
parish in the Midland Counties, which had risen
into a large town during the war, and upon
which the hard years which followed had fallen
with fearful weight. The trade had been half
ruined ; and then came the old sad story of
masters reducing their establishments, men
turned off and wandering about, hungry and
wan in body, and fierce in soul, from the thought
of wives and children staiving at home, and the
last sticks of furniture going to the pawn-shop ;
children taken from school, and lounging about
the dirty streets and courts, too listless almost
to play, and squalid in rags and misery. And
then the fearful struggle between the employers
and men ; lowerings of wages, strikes, and the
long course of oft-repeated crime, ending every
now and then with a riot, a fire, and the county
yeomanry. There is no need here to dwell upon
such tales ; the Englishman into whose soul
they have not sunk deep is not worthy the name ;
you English boys for whom this book is meant
(God bless your bright faces and kind hearts !)
will learn it all soon enough.

Into such a parish and state of society Ar-
thur’s father had been thrown at the age of
twenty.five, a young mai-ried parson, full of
faith, hope, and love. He had battled with it
like a man, and had lots of fine Utopian ideas
about the perfectibility of mankind, glorious hu-
manity, and such-like knocked out of his head ;
and a real wholesome Christian love for the
poor struggling, sinning men, of whom he felt
himself one, and with and for whom he spent
fortune and strength and life, driven into his
heart. He had battled like a man, and gotten
a man’s reward. No silver teapots or salvers,
with flowery inscriptions, setting forth his vir-
tues and the appreciation of a genteel parish ;
no fat living or stall, for which he never looked,
and didn't care ; no sighs and praises of com-
fortable dowagers and well got-up young wom-
en, who worked him slippers, sugared his tea,
and adored him as “a devoted man;” but a
manly respect, wrung from the unwilling souls
of men who fancied his order their natural ene-
mies ; the fear and hatred of every one who was
false or unjust in the district, were he master or
man ; and the blessed sight of women and chil-
dren daily becoming more human and more
homely, a comfort to themselves and to their
husbands and fathers.

These things of course took time, and had to

be fought for with toil and sweat of brain and
heart, and with the life-blood poured out. All
that Arthur had laid his account to give, and
took as a matter of course ; neither pitying
himself, nor looking on himself as a martyr,
when he felt the wear and tear making him feel
old before his time, and the stifling air of fe>er-
dens telling on his health. His wife seconded
him in every thing. She had been rather fond
of society, and much admired and run after be-
fore her marriage ; and the London world to
which she had belonged pitied poor Fanny Eve-
lyn when she married the young clergyman,
and went to settle in that smoky hole, Turley, a
very nest of Chartism and Atheism, in a part of
the county which all the decent families had
had to leave for years. However, somehow or
other she didn’t seem to care. If her husband’s
living had been amongst green fields and near
pleasant neighbors, she would have liked it bet-
ter— that she never pretended to deny. But
there they were : the air wasn’t bad, after all ;
the people were very good sort of people — civil
to you if you were civil to them, after the first
brush ; and they didn’t expect to work miracles,
and convert them all ofF-hand into model Chris-
tians. So he and she went quietly among the
folk, talking to and treating them just as they
would have done people of their own rank.
They didn’t feel that they were doing any thing
out of the common way, and so were perfectly
natural, and had none of that condescension or
consciousness of manner which so outrages the
independent poor. And thus they gradually
won respect and confidence ; and after sixteen
years he was looked up to by the whole neigh-
borhood as #/ie just man, the man to whom mas-
ters and men could go in their strikes, and all
in their quarrels and difficulties, and by whom
the right and true word would be said without
fear or favor. And the women had come round
to take her advice, and go to her as a friend in
all their troubles, while the children all wor-
shipped the very ground she trod on.

They had three children, two daughters and
a son, little Arthur, who came between his sis-
ters. He had been a very delicate boy from his
childhood ; they thought he had a tendency to
consumption, and so he had been kept at home
and taught by his father, who had made a com-
panion of him, and from whom he had gain-
ed good scholarship, and a knowledge of and in-
terest in many subjects which boys in general
never come across till they arc many years
older.

Just as he reached his thirteenth year, and
his father had settled that he was strong enough
to go to school, and, after much debating with
himself, had resolved to send him there, a des-
perate typhus fever broke out in the town ;
most of the other clergy, and almost all the doc-
tors, ran away; the work fell with tenfold
weight on -those who stood to their work. Ar-
thur and his wife both caught the fever, of
which he died in a few days, and she recovered,
having been able to nurse him to the end, and

TOM BliOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

store up his last words. He was sensible to
the last, and calm and happy, leaving his wife
and children with fearless trust for a few years
in the hands of the Lord and Friend who had
lived and died for him, and for whom he, to the
best of his power, had lived and died. His wid-
ow’s mourning was deep and gentle ; she was
more affected by the request of the Committee
of a Free-thinking club, established in the town
by some of the factory hands (which he had
striven against with might and main, and near-
ly suppressed), that some of their number might
be allowed to help bear the coffin, than by any
thing else. Two of them were chosen, who
with six other laboring men, his own fellow-
workmen and friends, bore him to his grave — a
man who had fought the Lord’s fight even unto
the death. The shops were closed and the fac-
tories shut that day in the parish, yet no master
stopped the day’s wages; but for many a year
afterwards the towns-folk felt the want of that
brave, hopeful, loving parson, and his wife, who
had lived to teach them mutual forbearance and
helpfulness, and had aZmosf at last given them a
glimpse of what this old Avorld would be, if peo-
ple would live for God and each other, instead
of for themselves.

What has all this to do with our story?
Well, my dear boys, let a fellow go on his own
way, or you won’t get any thing out of him
worth having. I must show you what sort of a
man it was who had begotten and trained litrle
Arthur, or else you won’t believe in him, which
I am resolved you shall do ; and you won’t see
how he, the timid, weak boy, had points in him
from which the bravest and strongest recoiled,
and made his presence and example felt from
the first on all sides, unconsciously to himself,
and without the least attempt at proselytizing.
The spirit of his father was in him, and the
Friend to whom his father had left him did not
neglect the trust. ^

After supper that night, and almost nightly
for years afterwards, Tom and Arthur, and by
degrees East occasionally, and sometimes one,
sometimes another, of their friends, read a chap-
ter of the Bible together, and talked it over af-
terwards. Tom was at first utterly astonished,
and almost shocked, at the sort of way in which
Arthur read the book, and talked about the men
and women whose lives were there told. The
first night they happened to fall on the chapters
about the famine in Egypt, and Arthur began
talking about Joseph as if he w^ere a living
statesman ; just as he might have talked about
Lord Grey and the Reform Bill : only that they
were much more living realities to him. The
book was to him, Tom saw, the most vivid and
delightful history of real people, who might do
right or wrong, just like anyone who was walk-
ing about in Rugby — the Doctor, or the mas-
ters, or the sixth-form boys. But the astonish-
ment soon passed off, the scales seemed to drop
from his eyes, and the book became at once and
forever to him the great human and divine book,
and the men and women, whom he had looked

upon as something quite different from himself,
became his friends and counsellors.

For our purposes, however, the history of one
night’s reading will be sufficient, which must be
told here, now we are on the subject, though it
didn’t happen till a year afterwards, and long
after the events recorded in the next chapter of
our story.

Arthur, Tom, and East were together one
night, and read the story of Naaman coming to
Elisha to be cured of his leprosy. When the
chapter was finished, Tom shut his Bible with a
slap.

“I can’t stand that fellow Naaman,” said he,
“ after what he’d seen and felt, going back and
bowing himself down in the house of Rimmon,
because his effeminate scoundrel of a master did
it. I wonder Elisha took the trouble to heal
him. How he must have despised him !”

“ Yes, there you go off as usual, with a shell
on your head,” struck in East, who always took
the opposite side to Tom ; half from love of ar-
gument, half from conviction. “How do you
know he didn’t think better of it ? how do you
know his master was a scoundrel ? His letter
don’t look like it, and the book don’t say so.”
“I don’t care,” rejoined Tom; “why did
Naaman talk about bowing down, then, if he
didn’t mean to do it? He wasn’t likely to get
more in earnest when he got back to Court, and
away from the Prophet.”

“Well but, Tom,” said Arthur, “look what
Elisha says to him, ‘ Go in peaee.’ He wouldn't
have said that if Naaman had been in the wrong.”
“ I don’t see that that means more than say-
ing, ‘ You’re not the man I took you for.’ ”
“No, no, that won’t do at all,” said East;
“read the words fairly, and take men as you find
them. I like Naaman, and think he was a very
fine fellow.”

“I don’t,” said Tom, positively.

“Well, I think East is right,” said Arthur;
“I can’t see but what it’s right to do the best
you can, though it mayn’t be the best absolutely.
Every man isn’t born to be a martyr.”

“ Of course, of course,” said East; “but he’s
on one of his pet hobbies. How often have I
told you, Tom, that you must drive a nail where
it’ll go.”

“And how often have I told yon,” rejoined
Tom, “that it’ll always go where you want, if
you only stiek to it and hit hard enough. I
hate half measures and compromises.”

“Yes, he’s a whole-hog man, is Tom. Must
have the whole animal, hair and teeth, claws
and tail,” laughed East. “ Sooner have no
bread, any day, than half the loaf.”

“I don’t know,” said Arthur, “it’s rather
puzzling ; but ain’t most right things got by
proper compromises, I mean where the principle
isn’t given up ?”

“ That’s just the point,” said Tom ; “ I don’t
object to a compromise, where you don’t give
up your principle.”

i “ Not you,” said East laughingly. “I know
him of old, Arthur, and you’ll find him out

TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS.

some da}'. There isn’t such a reasonable fellow
in the world, to hear him talk. He never Avants
any thing but what’s right and fair ; only when
you come to settle what’s right and fair, it’s
every thing that he wants, and nothing that you
want. And that’s his idea of a compromise.
Give me the Brown compromise when I’m on
his side.”

“Now, Harry,” said Tom, “no more chaflP—
I’m serious. Look here — this is what makes my
blood tingle;” and he turned over the pages of
his Bible and read, “ Shadrach, Meshach, and
Abednego answered and said to the king, O
Nebuchadnezzar, we are not careful to answer
thee in this matter. If it he so, our God whom
we serve is able to deliver us from the burning
fiery furnace, and He will deliver us out of thine
hand, O king. But if not, be it known unto
thee, O king, that we will not serve thy gods,
nor Avorship the golden image Avhich thou hast
set up.” He read the last verse tAvicc, empha-
sizing the nets, and dwelling on them as if they
gave him actual pleasure, and Avere hard to part
Avith.

They Avere silent a minute, and then Arthur
said, “Yes, that’s a glorious story, but it don’t
proA'e your point, Tom, I think. There are
times Avhen there is only one Ava^-, and that the
highest, and then the men are found to stand
in the breach.”

“There’s always a highest Avay, and it’s al-
Avays the right one,” said Tom. “How many
times has the Doctor told us that in his sermons
in the last year, I should like to knoAv?”

“ Well, you ain’t going to convince us, is he,
Arthur ? No Brown compromise to-night, ” said
East, looking at his Avatch. “But it’s past
eight, and Ave must go to first lesson. What a
bore!”

So they took doAvn their books and fell to
work ; but Arthur didn’t forget, and thought
long and often over the conA'ersation.

CHAPTER III.

ARTHUR MAKES A FRIEND.

“ Let Nature be your teacher;

Sweet ia the lore which Nature brings ;

Our meddling intellect

Misshapes the beauteous forms of things.

We murder to dissect —

Enough of Science and of Art ;

Close up those barren leaves ;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That Avatches and receives." — Woeuswoktii.

About six weeks after the beginning of the
half, as Tom and Arthur Avere sitting one night
before supper beginning their verses, Arthur sud-
denly stopped, and looked up, and said, “Tom,
do you knoAV any thing of Martin?”

“Yes,” said Tom, taking his hand out of his
back hair, and delighted to throw his Gradus
ad Parnassum on to the sofa; “I knoAV him
pretty Avell. He’s a very good fellow, but as mad
as a hatter. He’s called Madman, you knoAv.
And never Avas such a felloAv for getting all sorts

of rum things about him. He tamed tAvo snakes
last half, and used to carry them about in his
pocket, and I’ll be bound he’s got some hedge-
hogs and rats in his cupboard now, and no one
knows Avhat besides.”

“I should like A'ery much to knoAv him,”
said Arthur ; “he was next to me in the form
to-day, and he’d lost his book and looked over
mine, and he seemed so kind and gentle that I
liked him A'ery much.”

“Ah, poor old Madman, he’s ahvays losing
his books,” said Tom, “and getting called up
and floored because he hasn’t got them.”

“ I like him all the better,” said Arthur.

“Well, he’s great fun, I can tell you,” said
Tom, throAving himself back on the sofa, and
chuckling at the remembrance. “We had
such a game Avith him one day last half. He
had been kicking up horrid stinks for some time
in his study, till I suppose some felloAV told
Mary, and she told the Doctor. Anyhow, one
day a little before dinner, Avhen he came doAvn
from the library, the Doctor, instead of going
home, came striding into the Hall. East and
I and five or six other felloAvs were at the fire,
and preciously Ave stared, for he don’t come in
like that once a year, unless it is a Avet day and
there’s a fight in the Hall. ‘ East,’ says he,
‘just come and shoAv me Martin’s study.’ ‘ Oh,
here’s a game,’ whispered the rest of us, and
Ave all cut up stairs after the Doctor, East lead-
ing. As Ave got into the New Roav, Avhich Avas
hardly Avide enough to hold the Doctor and his
goAv'n, click, click, click, we heard in the old
Madman’s den. Then that stopped all of a
sudden, and the bolts AA'ent to like fun : the
Madman knew East’s step, and thought there
Avas going to be a siege.

“ ‘It’s the Doctor, Martin. He’s here, and
Avants to see you,’ sings out East.

“ Then the bolts Avent back sloAvly, and the
door opened, and there was the old Madman
standing, looking precious scared ; his jacket
otf, his shirt-sleeves up to his elboAvs, and his
long skinny arms all covered Avith anchors and
arroAvs and letters, tattooed in Avith gunpoAvder
like a sailor-boy’s, and a stink fit to knock you
doAvn coming out. ’Twas all the Doctor could
do to stand his ground, and East and I, avIio
Avere looking in under his arms, held our noses
tight. The old magpie Avas standing on the
windoAV-sill, all his feathers drooping, and look-
ing disgusted and half-poisoned.

“ ‘ What can you be about, Martin ?’ says
the Doctor; ‘you really mustn’t go on in this
Avay — you’re a nuisance to the Avhole passage.’

“‘Please, sir, I was only mixing up this
poAvder, there isn’t any harm in it ;’ and the
Madman seized nervously on his pestle and
mortar, to shoAV the Doctor the harmlessness
of his pursuits, and Avent on pounding ; click,
click, click. He hadn’t given six clicks before,
puff! up Avent the Avhole into a great blaze,
aAvay Avent the pestle and mortar across the
study, and back Ave tumbled into the passage.
! The magpie fluttered down into the court,

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

maktin’s blow-up.

swearing, and the Madman danced out, howl-
ing, with his fingers in his mouth. The Doctor
caught hold of him, and called to us to fetch
some water. ‘ There, you silly fellow,’ said he,
quite pleased, though, to find he wasn’t much
hurt, ‘you see you don’t know the least what
you’re doing with all these things ; and now,
mind, you must give up practising chemistry by
yourself.’ Then he took hold of his arm and
looked at it, and I saw he had to bite his lip,
and his eyes twinkled ; but he said, quite grave,

‘ Here, you see, you’A^e been making all these
foolish marks on yourself, which you can never
get out, and you’ll be very sorry for it in a year
or two : now come down to the housekeeper’s
room, and let us see if you are hurt.’ And
away went the two, and we all staid and had a
regular turn-out of the den, till Martin came
back with his hand bandaged and turned us out.
However, I’ll go and see what he’s after, and
tell him to come in after prayers to supper.”
And away went Tom to find the boy in ques-
tion, who dwelt in a little study by himself in
New Row.

The aforesaid Martin whom Arthur had
taken such a fancy for was one of those unfor-
tunates who were at that time of day (and are,
I fear, still) quite out of their places at a pub-
lic school. If we knew how to use our boys,
Martin Avould have been seized upon and edu-

cated as a natural philosopher. He had a pas-
sion for birds, beasts, and insects, and knew
more of them and their habits than any one in
Rugby, except perhaps the Doctor, who knew
every thing. He was also an experimental
chemist on a small scale, and had made unto
himself an electric machine, from which it was
his greatest pleasure and glory to administer
small shocks to any small boys who were rash
enough to venture into his study. And this
was by no means an adventure free from ex-
citement; for, besides the probability of a snake
dropping on to your head or twining lovingly
up your leg, or a rat getting into your breeches-
pocket in search of food, there was the animal
and chemical odor to be fltced, which always
hung about the den, and the chance of being
blown up in some of the many experiments
which Martin was always trying, with the most
wondrous results in the shape of explosions and
smells that mortal boy ever heard of. Of
course, poor Martin, in consequence of his pur-
suits, had become an Ishmaelite in the house.
In the first place, he half-poisoned all his neigh-
bors, and they in turn were always on the look-
out to pounce upon any of his numerous live-
stock, and drive him frantic by enticing his pet
old magpie out of his window into a neighbor-
ing study, and making the disreputable old bird
drunk on toast soaked in beer and sugar. Then

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

Martin, for his sins, inhabited a study looking
into a small court some ten feet across, the
window of which was completely commanded
by those of the studies opposite in the sick-room
row, these latter being at a slightly higher ele-
vation. East, and another boy of an equally
tormenting and ingenious turn of mind, now
lived exactly opposite, and had expended huge
pains and time in the preparation of instruments
of annoyance for the behoof of Martin and his
live colony. One morning an old basket made
its appearance, suspended by a short cord, out-
side Martin’s window, in which were deposited
an amateur nest containing four young hungry
jackdaws, the pride and glory of Martin’s life
for the time being, and which he was currently
asserted to have hatched upon his own person.
Early in the morning and late at night he was
to be seen half out of window, administering to
the varied wants of his callow brood. After
deep cogitation. East and his chum had spliced
a knife on to the end of a fishing-rod ; and hav-
ing watched Martin out, had, after half an hour’s
severe sawing, cut the string by which the bas-
ket was suspended, and tumbled it on to tlie
pavement below, with hideous remonstrance
from the occupants. Poor Martin, returning
from his short absence, collected the fragments
and replaced his brood (except one whose neck
had been broken in the descent) in their old lo-
cation, suspending them this time by string and
wire twisted together, defiant of any sharp in-
strument which his persecutors could command.
But, like the Russian engineers at Sebastopol,
East and his chum had an answer for every
move of the adversary ; and the next day had
mounted a gun in the shape of a pea-shooter
upon the ledge of their window, trained so as
to bear exactly upon the spot which Martin had
to occupy while tending his nurslings. The
moment he began to feed, they began to shoot ;
in vain did the enemy himself invest in a pea-
shooter, .and endeavor to answer the fire while
he fed the young birds with his other hand ; his
attention w.as divided, and his shots flew wild,
w'hile every one of theirs told on his face and
hands, and drove him into bowlings and impre-
cations. He had been driven to ensconce the
nest in a corner of his already too well-filled den.

His door was barricaded by a set of ingenious
bolts of his own invention, for the sieges were
frequent by the neighbors when any unusually
ambrosial odor spread itself from the den to the
neighboring studies. The door-panels were in
a normal state of smash, but the frame of the
door resisted all besiegers, and behind it the
owner carried on his varied pursuits ; much in
the same state of mind, I should fancy, as a
border-farmer lived in, in the days of the old
moss-troopers, when his hold might be summon-
ed or his cattle carried off at any minute of
night or day.

“Open, Martin, old boj^ — it’s only I, Tom
Brown.”

“ Oh, very well, stop a moment.” One bolt
went back. “You’re sure East isn’t there?”

“No, no, hang it, open.” Tom gave a kick,
the other bolt creaked, and he entered the den.

Den indeed it was, about five feet six inches
long by five wide, and seven feet high. About six
tattered school-books, and a few chemical books.
Taxidermy, Stanley on Birds, and an odd vol-
ume of Bewick, the latter in much better preser-
vation, occupied the top shelves. The other
shelves, where they had not been cut away and
used by the owner for other purposes, were fit-
ted up for the abiding-places of birds, beasts, and
reptiles. There was no attempt at carpet or
curtain. The table was entirely occupied by
the great work of Martin, the electric machine,
which was covered cai'efully with the remains of
his tablecloth. The jackdaw cage occupied one
w-all, and the other was adorned by a small
hatchet, a pair of climbing-irons, and his tin
candle-box, in which he was for the time being
endeavoring to raise a hopeful young family of
field-mice. As nothing should be let to lie use-
less, it was well that the candle-box was thus
occupied, for candles Martin never had. A
pound was issued to him weekly as to the other
boys, but as candles were available capital, and
easily exchangeable for birds’ eggs or young
birds, Martin’s pound invariably found its way
in a few hours to Howlett’s, the bird-fancier’s in
the Bilton road, who would give a hawk’s or
nightingale’s egg or young linnet in exchange.
Martin’s ingenuity was therefore forever on the
rack to supply himself with a light ; just now
he had hit upon a grand invention, and the den
was lighted by a flaring cotton-wick issuing from
a ginger-beer bottle full of some doleful compo-
sirion. When light altogether failed him, Mar-
tin would loaf about by the fires in the passages or
Hall, after the manner of Diggs, and try to do
his verses or learn his lines by the fire-light.

“ Well, old boy, you haven’t got any sweeter
in the den this half. How that stuff in the bot-
tle stinks ! Never mind, I ain’t going to stop,
but you come up after prayers to our study : you
know young Arthur; we’ve got Gray’s study.
We’ll have a good supper and talk about bird’s-
nesting.”

Martin was evidently highly pleased at the
invitation, and promised to be up without fail.

As soon as prayers were over, and the sixth
and fifth-form boys had withdrawn to the aristo-
cratic seclusion of their own room, and the rest,
or democracy, had sat down to their supper in
the Hall ; Tom and Arthur, having secured
their allowances of bread and cheese, started on
their feet to catch the eye of the prtepostor of the
week, who remained in charge during supper,
walking up and down the Hall. He happened
to be an easy-going fellow, so they got a pleas-
ant nod to their “Please may I go out?” and
away they scrambled to prepare for hlartin a
sumptuous banquet. This Tom had insisted
on, for he was in great delight on the occasion ;
the reason of which delight must be expounded.
The fact was that this was the first attempt at
a friendship of his own which Arthur h.ad made,
and Tom hailed it .as a grand step, The ease

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

with which he himself became hail-fellow-well-
met with any body, and blundered into and out
of twenty friendships a half-year, made him
sometimes sorry and sometimes angry at Ar-
thur’s reserve and loneliness. True, Artliur
was always pleasant, and even jolly, with any
boys, who came with Tom to their study ;
but Tom felt that it was only through him, as it
were, that his chum associated with others, and
that but for him Arthur would have been dwelling
in a wilderness. This increased his conscious-
ness of responsibility ; and though he hadn’t
reasoned it out, and made it clear to himself,
yet somehow he knew that this responsibility,
this trust which he had taken on him without
tliinking about it, head-over-heels in fact, was
the centre and turning-point of his school-life,
that which was to make him or mar him ; his
appointed work and trial for the time being.
And Tom was becoming a new boy, though with
frequent tumbles in the dirt and perpetual hard
battle with himself, and was daily growing in
manfulness and thoughtfulness, as every high-
couragedand well-principled boy must, when he
finds himself for the first time consciously at
grips with self and the devil. Already he could
turn almost without a sigh, from the School-
gates, from which had just scampered off East
and three or four others of his own particular
set, bound for some jolly lark not quite accoi'd-
ing to law, and involving probably a row wdth
louts, keepers, or farm-laborers, the skipping
dinner or calling-over, some of Phoebe Jennings’s
beer, and a very possible floggitig at the end of
all as a relish. He had quite got over the stage
in which he would grumble to himself, “ Well,
hang it, it’s very hard of the Doctor to have sad-
dled me with Arthur. Why couldn’t he have
chummed him with Fogey, or Thomkin, or any
of the fellows who never do any thing but walk
round the close, and finish their copies the first
day they’re set ?” But although all this w'as
past, he longed, and felt that he was right in
longing, for more time for the legitimate pas-
times of cricket, fives, bathing and fishing with-
in bounds, in which Arthur could not yet be his
companion ; and he felt that when the young un
(as he now generally called him) had found a
pursuit and some other friend for himself, he
should be able to give more time to the educa-
tion of his own body with a clear conscience.

And now what he so wished for had come to
pass ; he almost hailed it as a special providence
(as indeed it was, but not for the reasons he
gave for it — what providences are?) that Ar-
t!mr should have singled out Martin of all fel-
lows for a friend. “ The old Madman is the
very fellow,” thought he; “he will take him
scrambling over half the country after birds’
eggs and flowers, make him run and swim and
climb like an Indian, and not teach him a word
of any thing bad, or keep him from his lessons.
What luck!” And so, with more than his us-
ual heartiness, he dived into his cupboard and
hauled out an old knuckle-bone of ham, and
two or three bottles of beer, together with the

solemn pewter only used on state occasions ;
while Arthur, equally elated at the easy accom-
plishment of his first act of volition in the joint
establishment, produced from his side a bottle
of pickles and a pot of jam, and cleared the ta-
ble. In a minute or two the noise of tlie boys
coming up from supper was heard, and Martin
knocked and was admitted, bearing his bread
and cheese, and the three fell to with hearty
good-will upon the viands, talking fiister than
they ate, for all shyness disappeared in a mo-
ment before Tom’s bottled-beer and hospitable
ways. “ Here’s Arthur, a regular young town-
mouse, with a natural taste for the woods, Mar-
tin, longing to break his neck climbing trees,
and with a passion for young snakes.”

“Well, I say,” sputtered out Martin eagerly,
“ will you come to-morrow, both of you, to Cal-
decott’s Spinney, then, for I know of a kestrel’s
nest, up a fir-tree — I can’t get at it without help ;
and. Brown, you can climb against any one.”

“Oh yes, do let us go,” said Arthur; “I
never saw a hawk’s nest, nor a hawk’s egg.”

“You just come down to my study then, and
I’ll show you five sorts,” said Martin.

“ Ay, the old Madman has got the best col-
lection in the house, out and out,” said Tom;
and then Martin, warming with unaccustomed
good cheer and the chance of a convert, launch-
ed out into a proposed birds’-nesting campaign,
betraying all manner of important secrets ; a
golden-crested wren’s nest, near Butlin’s Mound,
a moor-hen who was sitting on nine eggs in a
pond down the Barby Road, and a kingfisher’s
nest in a corner of the old canal above Browns-
over Mill. He had heard, he said, that no one
had ever got a kingfisher’s nest out perfect, and
that the British Museum, or the Government, or
somebody, had offered £100 to any one who
could bring them a nest and eggs not damaged.
In the middle of which astounding announce-
ment, to which the others were listening with
open ears, and already considering the applic.n-
tion of the £100, a knock came to the door, and
East’s voice was heard craving admittance.

“ There’s Harry,” said Tom ; “ we’ll let him
in — I’ll keep him steady, Martin. I thought
the old boy would smell out the supper.”

The fact was that Tom’s heart had already
smitten him for not asking his “ fidus Achates”
to the feast, although only an extempore affiiir ;
and though prudence and the desire to get Mar-
tin and Arthur together alone at first had over-
come his scruples, he was now heartily glad to
open the door, broach another bottle of beer,
and hand over the old ham-knuckle to the
searching of his old friend’s pocket-knife.

“Ah, you greedy vagabonds,” said East, with
his mouth full, “ I knew there was something
going on when I saw you cut off out of Hall so
quick with your suppers. What a stunning
tap, Tom ! you are a Avunner for bottling the
swipes.”

“I’ve had practice enough for the sixth in
my time, and it’s hard if I haven’t picked up a
wrinkle or two for my own benefit.”

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

“ Well, old Madman, and how goes the birds’-
nesting campaign? How’s Howlett? I ex-
pect the young rooks’ll be out in another fort-
night, and then my turn comes.”

“There’ll be no young rooks fit for pies for a
month yet; shows how much you know about
it,” rejoined Martin, who, though very good
friends with East, regarded him with consid-
erable suspicion for his propensity to practical
jokes.

“ Scud knows nothing and cares for nothing
but grub and mischief,” said Tom ; “ but young
rook-pie, specially when you’ve had to climb for
them, is very pretty eating. However, I say.
Scud, we’re all going after a hawk’s nest to-
morrow, in Caldecott’s Spinney; and if you’ll
come and behave yourself, we’ll have a stunning
climb.”

“And a bathe in Aganippe. Hooray ! I’m
your man.”

“No, no; no bathing in Aganippe; that’s
where our betters go.”

“Well, well, never mind. I’m for the
hawk’s nest and any thing that turns up.”

And the bottled beer being finished, and his
hunger appeased. East departed to his study ;
“ that sneak Jones,” as he informed them, who
had just got into the sixth and occupied the next
study, having instituted a nightly visitation upon
East and his chum, to their no small discom-
fort.

'W’’hen he was gone, Martin rose to follow,
but Tom stopped him. “No one goes near
New Row,” said he, “ so you may just as well
stop here and do your vei’ses, and then we’ll have
some more talk. We’ll be no end quiet; be-
sides, no prcepostor comes here now — we haven’t
been visited once this half.”

So the table was cleared, the cloth restored,
and the three fell to work with Gradus and dic-
tionary upon the morning’s vulgus.

They were three very fair examples of the
way in which such tasks were done at Rugby,
in the consulship of Plancus. And doubtless
the method is little changed, for there is noth-
ing new under the sun, especially at schools.

Now be it known unto all you boys who are at
schools which do not rejoice in the time-honor-
ed institution of the Vulgus (commonly sup-
posed to have been established by William of
Wykeham at Winchester, and imported to Rug-
by by Arnold, more for the sake of the lines
which were learnt by heart with it, than for its
own intrinsic value, as I’ve always understood),
that it is a short exercise, in Greek or Latin
verse, on a given subject, the minimum number
of lines being fixed for each form. The master
of the form gave out at fourth lesson on tlie
previous day the su’oject for next morning’s vul-
gus, and at first lesson each boy had to bring
his vulgus ready to be looked over ; and with the
vulgus, a certain number of lines from one of
the Latin or Greek poets then being construed
in the form had to be got by heart. The mas-
ter at first lesson called up each boy in the form
in order, and put him on in the lines. If he

couldn’t say them, or seem to say them, by read-
ing them off the master’s or some other boy’s book
who stood near, he was sent back, and went be-
low all the boys who did so say or seem to say
them ; but in either case his vulgus was looked
over by the master, who gave and entered in his
book, to the credit or discredit of the boy, so
many marks as the composition merited. At
Rugby vulgus and lines were the first lesson ev-
ery other day in the week, or Tuesdays, Thurs-
days, and Saturdays ; and as there were thirty-
eight weeks in the school year, it is obvious to
the meanest capacity that the master of each
form had to set one hundred and fourteen sub-
jects every year, two hundred and twenty-eight
every two years, and so on. Now to persons
of moderate invention this w'as a considerable
task, and human nature being prone to repeat
itself, it will not be wondered that the masters
gave the same subjects sometimes over again
after a certain lapse of time. To meet and re-
buke this bad habit of the masters, the school-
boy mind, with its accustomed ingenuity, had
invented an elaborate system of tradition. Al-
most every boy kept his own vulgus written out
in a book, and these books were duly handed
down from boy to boy, till (if the tradition has
gone on till now) I suppose the popular boys, in
whose hands bequeathed vulgus-books have ac-
cumulated, are prepared with three or four vul-
guses on any subject in heaven or earth, or in
“more worlds than one,” which an unfortunate
master can pitch upon. At any rate, such
lucky fellows had generall}' one for themselves
and one for a friend in my time. The only ob-
jection to the traditionary method of doing your
vulguses was, the risk that the successions might
have become confused, and so that you and an-
other follower of traditions should show up the
same identical vulgus some fine morning; in
which case, when it happened, considerable
grief was the result — but when did such risk
hinder boys or men from short cuts and pleas-
ant paths ?

Now in the study that night, Tom was the
upholder of the traditionary method of vulgus
doing. He carefully produced two large vulgus
books, and began diving into them, and picking
out a line here, and an ending there (tags as they
were vulgarly called), till he had gotten all that
he thought he could make fit. He then pro-
ceeded to patch his tags together with the help
of his Gradus, producing an incongruous and
feeble result of eight elegiac lines, the minimum
quantity for his form, and finishing up with two
highly moral lines extra, making ten in all, Avhich
he cribbed entire from one of his books, begin-
ning “O genus humanum,” and which he him-
self must have used a dozen times before, when-
ever an unfortunate or wdeked hero, of whatever
nation or language under the sun, was the sub-
ject. Indeed he began to have great doubts
whether tlie master wouldn’t remember them,
and so only threw them in as extra lines, be-
cause in any case they would call off attention
from the other tags, and if detected, being extra

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

lines, he wouldn’t be sent back to do two more
in their place, while if they passed muster again
he would get marks for them.

The second method pursued by Martin may
be called the dogged, or prosaic metliod. He,
no more than Tom, took any pleasure in the
task, but having no old vulgus-books of his own,
or any one’s else, could not follow the tradition-
ary method, for which, too, as Tom remarked,
he hadn’t the genius. Martin then proceeded
to write down eight lines in English, of the most
matter-of-fact kind, the first that came into
his head ; and to convert these, line by line, by
main force of Gradus and dictionary, into Latin
that would scan. This was all he cared for, to
produce eight lines with no false quantities or
concords : whether the words were apt, or what
the sense was, mattered nothing; and, as the
article was all new, not a line beyond the mini-
mum did the followers of the dogged method
ever produce.

The third, or artistic method, was Arthur’s.
He considered first what point in the character
or event which was the subject could most neatly
be brought out within the limits of a vulgus, try-
ing always to get his idea into the eight lines,
but not binding himself to ten or even twelve
lines if he couldn’t do this. He then set to
work, as much as possible without Gradus or
other help, to clothe his idea in appropriate Latin
or Greek, and would not be satisfied till he had
polished it well up with the aptest and most
poetic words and phrases he could get at.

A fourth method indeed was used in the
school, but of too simple a kind to require a
comment. It may be ealled the vicarious meth-
od, obtained amongst big boys of lazy or bully-
ing habits, and consisted chiefly in making clever
boys whom they could thrash do their whole
vulgus for them, and construe it to them after-
wards ; which latter is a method not to be en-
couraged, and which I strongly advise you all
not to practise. Of the others, you will find the
traditionary most troublesome, unless you can
steal your vulguses whole (experto crede), and
that the artistic method pays the best both in
marks and other ways.

The vulguses being finished by nine o’clock,
and Martin having rejoiced above measure in
the abundance of light, and of Gradus and dic-
tionary, and other conveniences almost unknown
to him for getting through the work, and having
been pressed by Arthur to come and do his verses
there whenever he liked, the three boys went
down to Martin’s den, and Arthur was initiated
into the lore of birds’ eggs, to his great delight.
The exquisite coloring and forms astonished and
charmed him who had scarcely ever seen any but
a hen's egg or an ostrich’s, and by the time he
was lugged away to bed he had learned the
names of at least twenty sorts, and dreamt of
the glorious perils of tree climbing, and that he
had found a roc’s egg in the island as big as Sin-
bad’s and clouded like a titlark’s, in blowing
which Martin and he had nearly been drowned
in tlie yolk.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BIRD-FANCIERS.

“I have found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:

But let me the plunder forbear,

She would say 'twas a barbarous deed."

Konve.

“ And now, my lad, take them five shilling,

Aud on my advice in future think;

So Billy pouched them all so willing,

And got that night disguised in drink."

MS. Ballad.

The next morning at first lesson Tom was
turned back in his lines, and so had to wait till the
second round, while Martin and Arthur said theirs
all right and got out of school at once. When
Tom got out and ran down to breakfast at Har-
rowell’s they were missing, and Stumps informed
him that they had swallowed down their break-
fasts and gone off together — where, he couldn’t
say. Tom hurried over his own breakfast, and
went first to Martin’s study and then to.his own,
but no signs of the missing boys were to be found.
He felt half angry and jealous of Martin — where
could they be gone?

He learnt second lesson with East and the
rest in no very good temper, and then went out
into the quadrangle. About ten minutes before
school Martin and Arthur arrived in the quad-
rangle breathless, and, catching sight of him,
Arthur rushed up all excitement and with a
bright glow on his face.

“ Oh, Tom, look here,” cried he, holding out
three moor-hen’s eggs; “we’ve been down to
Barby Road to the pool Martin told us of last
night, and just see what we’ve got.”

Tom wouldn’t be pleased, and only looked out
for something to find fault with.

“Why, young un,” said he, “ what have you
been after ? You don’t mean to say you’ve been
wading?”

The tone of reproach made poor little Arthur
shrink up in a moment and look piteous, and
Tom, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned his
anger on Martin.

“ Well, I didn’t think, Madman, that you’d
have been such a muff as to let him be getting
wet through at this time of day. You might
have done the wading yourself.”

“ So I did, of course, only he would come in,
too, to see the nest. We left six eggs in ; they’ll
be hatched in a day or two.”

‘ ‘ Hang the eggs 1 ” said Tom ; “ a fellow can’t
turn his back for a moment, but all his work’s
undone. He’ll be laid up for a week for this
precious lark. I’ll be bound.”

“Indeed, Tom, now,” pfleaded Arthur, “my
feet ain’t wet, for Martin made me take off my
shoes and stockings and trowsers.”

“But they are wet and dirty, too — can’t I
see7” answered Tom ; “and you’ll be called up
and floored when the master sees what a state
you’re in. You haven’t looked at second lesson,
you know.” Oh Tom, you old humbug! you
to be upbraiding any one with not learning their
lessons. If you hadn’t -been floored yourself
now at first lesson, do jmu mean to say you

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

wouldn’t have been with them? and you’ve tak-
en away all poor little Arthur’s joy and pride
in his first birds’ eggs, and he goes and puts
them down in the study, and takes down his
books with a sigh, thinking he has done some-
thing horribly wrong, whereas he has learnt on
in advance much more than will be done at sec-
ond lesson.

But the old Madman hasn’t, and gets called
up and makes some frightful shots, losing about
ten places, and all but getting floored. This
somewhat appeases Tom’s wrath, and by the
end of the lesson he has regained his temper.
And afterwards in their study he begins to get
right again, as lie watches Arthur’s intense joy
at seeing Martin blowing the eggs and glueing
them carefully on to bits of cardboard, and notes
the anxious loving looks which the little fellow
casts sidelong at him. And then he thinks,
“"What an ill-tempered beast I am! Here’s
just what I was wishing for last night come
about, and I’m spoiling it all,” and in another
five minutes has swallowed the last mouthful
of his bile, and is repaid by seeing his little sen-
sitive plant expand again, and sun itself in his
smiles.

After dinner the Madman is busy with the
preparations for their expedition, fitting new
straps on to his climbing-irons, filling large pill-
boxes with cotton-wool, and sharpening East’s
small axe. They carry all their munitions into
calling-over, and directly afterwards, having
dodged such praspostors as are on the look-out
for fags at cricket, the four set off at a smart
trot down the Lawford foot-path straight for
Caldecott’s Spinney and the hawk’s nest.

Martin leads the way in high feather. It is
quite a new sensation to him getting compan-
ions, and he finds it very pleasant, and means
to show them all manner of proofs of his science
and skill. “ Brown and East may be better at
cricket and foot-ball and games,” thinks he,
“but out in the fields and woods see if I can’t
teach them something.” He has taken the
leadership already, and strides away in front
with his climbing-irons strapped under one arm,
his pecking-bag under the other, and his pock-
ets and hat full of pill-boxes, cotton-wool, and
other etceteras. Each of the others carries a
pecking-bag, and East his hatchet.

When they had crossed three or four fields
without a check, Arthur began to lag, and Tom
seeing this shouted to Martin to pull up a bit ;
“We ain’t out Hare-and-hounds — what’s the
good of grinding on at this rate?”

“ There’s the spinney,” said Martin, pulling
up on the brow of a slope at the bottom of which
lay LaAvford Brook, and pointing to the top of
the opposite slope ; “the nest is in one of those
high fir-trees at this end. And down by the
brook there, I know of a sedge-bird’s nest ;
we’ll go and look at it coming back.”

“Oh, come on, don’t let us stop,” said Ar-
thur, who was getting excited at the sight of the
wood ; so they broke into a trot again, and were
soon across the brook, up the slope, and into

the spinney. Here they advanced as noiselessly
as possible, lest keepers or other enemies should
be about, and stopped at the foot of a tall fir, at
the top of which Martin pointed out with pride
the kestrel’s nest, the object of their quest.

“ Oh where ! which is it ?” asks Arthur, gap-
ing up in the air, and having the most vague
idea of what it would be like.

“There, don’t you see !” said East, pointing
to a lump of mistletoe in the next tree, which
was a beech: he saw that Martin and Tom
were busy with the climbing-irons, and couldn’t
resist the temptation of hoaxing. Arthur stared
and wondered more than ever.

“Well, how curious! it doesn’t look a bit
like what I expected,” said he.

“Very odd birds, kestrels,” said East, look-
ing waggishly at his victim, who was still star-
gazing.

“But I thought it was in a fir-tree?” ob--
jected Arthur.

“ Ah, don’t you know? that’s a new sort of
fir which old Caldecott brought from the Hima-
layas.”

“Really!” said Arthur; “I’m glad I know
that — how unlike our firs they are ! They do
very well too here, don’t they? the spinney’s
full of them.”

“What’s that humbug he’s telling you?”
cried Tom, looking up, having caught the word
Himalayas, and suspecting what East was after.

“Only about this fir,” said Arthur, putting
his hand on the stem of the beech.

“Eir!” shouted Tom; “why, you don’t
mean to say, young un, you don’t know a beech
when you see one ?”

Poor little Arthur looked terribly ashamed,
and East exploded in laughter which made the
wood ring.

“I’ve hardly ever seen any trees,” faltered
Arthur.

“What a shame to hoax him. Scud!” cried
Martin. “Nevermind, Arthur, you shall know
more about trees than he does in a tveek or two.”

“And isn’t that the kestrel’s nest, then?”
asked Arthur.

“That! why, that’s a piece of mistletoe.
There’s the nest, that lump of sticks up this fir.”

“Don’t believe him, Arthur,” struck in the
incorrigible East; “I just saw an old magpie
go out of it.”

Martin did not deign to reply to this sally,
except by a grunt, as he buckled the last buckle
of his climbing-irons; and Arthur looked re-
proachfully at East without speaking.

But now came the tug of war. It was a very
difficult tree to climb until the branches were
reached, the first of which was some fourteen
feet up, for the trunk was too large at the bot-
tom to be swarmed ; in fact, neither of the boys
could reach more than half round it with their
arms. Martin and Tom, both of whom had
irons on, tried it without success at first ; the
fir bark broke away w'here they stuck the irons
in as soon as they leaned any weight on their
feet, and the grip of their arms wasn’t enough

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

to keep them np ; so, after getting up three or
four feet, down they came slithering to the
ground, barking their arms and faces. They
were furious, and East sat by laughing and

“I dare say! and have you standing on my
shoulders with the irons on : what do you think
my skin’s made of?” However, up lie got, and
leaned against the tree, putting his head down

CLlMBIiSG THE FIK-TKEE AFTEE THE KJCSTHEE’S KESX.

shouting at each failure, “Two to one on the
old magpie!”

“ We must try a pyramid,” said Tom at last.
“Now, Scud, you lazy rascal, stick yourself
against the tree!”

and clasping it with his arms as far as he could.
“ Now then. Madman,” said Tom, “ you next.”
“No, I’m lighter than you; you go next.”
So Tom got on East’s shoulders, and grasped
the tree above, and then Martin scrambled up

100

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

on to Tom’s shoulders, amidst the totterings
and groanings of the pyramid, and, with a
apring which sent his supporters howling to the
ground, clasped the stem some ten feet up, and
remained clinging. For a moment or two they
thought he couldn’t get up, but then, holding
on with arms and teeth, he worked first one
iron, then the other firmly into the bark, got
'ipotlier grip with his arms, and in another min-
ute had hold of the lowest branch.

“All up with the old magpie now,” said
blast ; and, after a minute’s rest, up went Mar-
tin, hand over hand, watched by Arthur with
fearful eagerness.

“ Isn’t it very dangerous ?” said he.

“Not a bit,” answered Tom; “you can’t
hurt if you only get good hand-hold. Try ev-
ery branch with a good puli before you trust it,
and then up you go.”

Martin was now amongst the small branches
close to the nest, and away dashed the old bird,
and soared up above the trees, watching the in-
truder.

“ All right— four eggs!” shouted he.

“ Take ’em all !” shouted East ; “ that’ll be
one apiece.”

“ No, no ! leave one, and then she won’t
care,” said Tom.

We boys had an idea that birds couldn’t count,
and were quite content as long as you left one
egg. I hope it is so.

Martin carefully put one egg into each of his
boxes and the third into his mouth, the only
other place of safety, and came down like a
lamp-lighter. All went well till he was within
ten feet of the ground, when, as the trunk en-
larged, his hold got less and less firm, and at
last down he came wdth a run, tumbling on to
his back on the turf, spluttering and spitting
out the remains of the great egg, Avhich had
broken by the jar of his fall.

“Ugh, ugh! something to drink — ugh! it
was addled,” spluttered he, w'hile the AA'ood
rang again with the merry laughter of East
and Tom.

Then they examined the prizes, gathered up
heir things, and went off to the brook, where
Martin swallowed huge draughts of water to get
rid (if the taste ; and they visited the sedge-
hird's nest, and from thence struck across the
country in high glee, beating the hedges and
brakes as they went along ; and Arthur at last,
to his intense delight, was allowed to climb a
'inall hedgerow oak for a magpie’s nest Avith
Tom, Avho kept all around him like a mother,
and shoAved him Avhere to hold and how to
throw his Aveight ; and though he AA-as in a
great fright, didn't shoAv it ; and was applauded
by all for his lissomeness.

They crossed a road soon afterwards, and
there close to them lay a heap of charming peb-
bles.

“Look here,” shouted East, “here’s luck!
I’ve been longing for some good honest pecking
this half-hour. Let’s fill tlie bags, and haA'e
no more of this foozling bird’s-nesting.”

No one objected, so each boy filled the fus-
tian bag he carried full of stones : they crossed
into the next field, Tom and East taking one
side of the hedges, and the other two the other
side. Noise enough they made certainl}', but it
Avas too early in the season for the young birds,
and the old birds Avere too strong on the Aving
for our young marksmen, and fleAv out of shot
after the first discharge. But it was great fun,
rushing along the hedgerows, and discharging
stone after stone at blackbirds and chaffinches,
though no result in the shape of slaughtereti
birds Avas obtained ; and Arthur soon entered
into it, and rushed to head back the birds, and
shouted, and threw, and tumbled into ditches
and OA'cr and through hedges, as wild as the
Madman himself.

Presently the party, in full cry after an old
blackbird (who AA’as evidently used to the thing
and enjoyed the fun, for he would Avait till they
came close to him and then fly on for forty yards
or so, and with an impudent flicker of his tail,
dart into the depths of the quickset), came beat-
ing doAvn a high double hedge, two on each side.

“There he is again “ Head him “ Let
driA-e;” “I had him there;” “Take care
Avhere A'ou’re throAving, Madman ;” the shouts
might liave been heard a quarter of a mile off.
They Avere heard some two hundred yards off
by a farmer and tAvo of his shepherds, who Avere
doctoring sheep in a fold in the next field.

Noav the farmer in question rented a house
and yard situated at the end of the field in
Avhich the young bird-fanciers had arrived,
Avhich house and yard he didn’t occupy or keep
any one else in. Nevertheless, like a brainless
and unreasoning Briton, he persisted in main-
taining on the premises a large stock of cocks,
hens, and other poultry. Of course, all sorts of
depredators visited the jdace from time to time ;
foxes and gypsies wrought haA’oe in the night ;
Avhile in the day-time, I regret to have to con-
fess that visits from the Rugb}' boys, and conse-
quent disappearances of ancient and respecta-
ble foAvls, Avere not unfrequent. Tom and East
had during the period of their outlaAvry visited
the barn in question for felonious purposes, and
on one occasion had conquered and slain a duck
there, and borne atvay the carcass triumphantly,
hidden in their handkerchiefs. IIoAvever, they
AA'ere sickened of the practice by the trouble
and anxiety Avhich the Avretched duck’s body
caused them. They carried it to Sally Ilarro-
Avell’s, in hopes of a good supper ; but she, after
examining it, made a long face, and refused to
dress or have any thing to do Avith it. Tlien
they took it into tiieir study, and began pluck-
ing it themselA’cs ; but what to do Avith the
feathers, Avhere to hide them ?

“ Good gracious, Tom, Avhat a lot of feathers
a duck has!” groaned East, holding a bag full
in his hand, and looking disconsolately at the
carcass, not yet half plucked.

“ And I do think he’s getting high, too, al-
ready,” said Tom, smelling at him cautiously,
“ so Ave must finish him up soon.”

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

101

“ Yes, all very well, but how are we to cook
him ? I’m sure I ain’t going to try it on in the
hall or passages ; we can’t afford to be roasting
ducks about, our character’s too bad.”

“ I wish we were rid of the brute,” said
Tom, throwing him on the table in disgust.
And after a day or two more it became clear
that got rid of he must be ; so they packed him
and sealed him up in brown paper, and put him
in the cupboard of an unoccupied study, where
he was found in the holidays by the matron, a
grewsome body.

They had never been duck -hunting there
since, but others had, and the bold yeoman was
very sore on the subject, and bent on making
an example of the first boys he could catch.
So he and his shepherds crouched behind the
hurdles, and watched the party who were ap-
proaching all unconscious.

Why should that old guinea-fowl be lying
out in the hedge just at this particular moment
of all the year ? Who can say ? Guinea-fowls
always are— so are all other things, animals,
and persons — requisite for getting one into
scrapes, always ready when any mischief can
come of them. At any rate, just under East’s
nose popped out the old guinea-hen, scuttling
along and shrieking “ Come back, come back,”
at the top of her voice. Either of the other
three might perhaps have withstood the tempta-
tion, but East first lets drive the stone he has in
his hand at her, and then rushes to turn her
into the hedge again. He succeeds, and then
they are all at it for dear life, up and down the
hedge in full cry, the “ Come back, come back,”
getting shriller and fainter every minute.

Meantime, the farmer and his men steal over
the hurdles and creep down the hedge towards
the scene of action. They are almost within a
stone’s throw of Martin, who is pressing the un-
lucky chase hard, when Tom catches sight of
them, and sings out, “ Louts, ’ware louts, your
side ! Madman, look ahead !” and then catch-
ing hold of Arthur, hurries him away across the
field towards Rugby as hard as they can tear.
Had he been by himself, he would have staid to
see it out with the others, but now his heart
sinks, and all his pluck goes. The idea of being
led up to the Doctor with Arthur for bagging
fowls, quite unmans and takes half the run out
of him.

However, no boys are more able to take care
of themselves than East and Martin ; they
dodge the pursuers, slip through a gap, and
come pelting after Tom and Arthur, whom they
catch up in no time ; the farmer and his men
are making good running about a field behind.
Tom wishes to himself that they had made oft'
in any other direction, but noAv they are all in
for it together, and nlust see it out. “You
won’t leave the young un, will you ?” says he,
as they haul poor little Arthur, already losing
wind from the friglit, througli the next hedge.
“ Not we,” is the answer from both. The next
hedge is a stiff one ; the pursuers gain horribly
on them, and they only just pull Arthur through,
with two great rents in his trowsers, as the fore-
most shepherd comes up on the other side. As
they start into the next field, they are aware of
two figures walking down the footpath in the mid-
dle of it, and recognize Holmes and Diggs taking
a constitutional. Those good-natured fellows

102

TOM BKOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

immediately shout “ On.” “Let’s go to them
and surrender,” pants Tom. — Agreed. — And in
another minute the four boys, to the great as-
tonishment of those -worthies, rush breathless up
to Holmes and Diggs, who pull up to see what
is the matter ; and then the whole is explained

beats fi’ightfully quick, as he ponders, “Will
they stand by us ?”

The farmer makes a rush at East and collars
him ; and that young gentleman, with unusual
discretion, instead of kicking his shins, looks ap-
pealingly at Holmes, and stands still.

by the appearance of the farmer and his men,
who unite their forces and bear down on the
knot of boys.

There is no time to explain, and Tom’s heart

“ Hullo there, not so fast,” says Holmes, who
is bound to stand up for them till they are proved
in the wrong. “Now what’s all this about?”

“ I’ve got the young varmint at last, have I,”

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

103

pants the farmer; “why, they’ve been a skulk-
ing about ray yard and stealing my fowls, that’s
where ’tis; and if I doan’t have they flogged
for it, every one on ’em, my name ain’t Thomp-
son.”

Holmes looks grave, and Diggs’s face falls.
They are quite ready to fight, no boys in the
school more so; but they are praepostors, and
understand their oflSce, and can't uphold un-
righteous causes.

“ I haven’t been near his old barn this half,”
cries East. “Nor I,” “ Nor I,” chime in Tom
and Martin.

“Now, Willura, didn’t you see ’em there last
w'eek ?”

“ Ees, I seen ’em sure enough,” says Willum,
grasping a prong he carried, and preparing for
action.

The boys deny stoutly, and Willum is driven
to admit that, “ if it worn’t they ’twas chaps as
like ’em as two peas’n;” and “leastways he’ll
swear he see’d them two in the yard last Mar-
tinmas,” indicating East and Tom.

Holmes has had time to meditate. “Now,
sir,” says he to Willum, “you see j’ou can’t re-
member what you have seen, and 1 believe the
boys. ”

“I doan’t care,” blusters the farmer; “they
was arter my fowls to-day, that’s enough for I.
Willum, you catch hold o’ t’other chap. They’ve
been a sneaking about this two hours, I tells ee,”
shouted he, as Holmes stands between Martin
and Willum, “ and have druv a matter of a
dozen young pullets pretty nigh to death.”

“ Oh, there’s a whacker!” cried East; “we
haven’t been within a hundred yards of his barn :
we haven’t been up here above ten minutes, and
we’ve seen nothing but a tough old guinea-hen,
who ran like a greyhound.”

“Indeed, that’s all true. Holmes, upon my
honor,” added Tom; “we weren’t after his
fowls; guinea-hen ran out of the hedge under
our feet, and we’ve seen nothing else.”

“ Drat their talk ! Thee catch hold o’ t’other,
Willum, and come along wi’ un.”

“Farmer Thompson,” said Holmes, warning
off Willum and the prong with his stick, while
Diggs faced the other shepherd, cracking his
fingers like pistol-shots, “now listen to reason
— the boys haven’t been after your fowls, that’s
plain.”

“ Tells ee I seed ’em. Who be you, I should
like to know?”

“Neveryoumind, Farmer,” answered Holmes.

‘ ‘ And now I’ll just tell you what it is — you ought
to be ashamed of yourself for leaving all that
poultry about, with no one to watch it, so near
the School. You deserve to have it all stolen.
So if you choose to come up to the Doctor with
them, I shall go with you, and tell him what I
think of it.”

The farmer began to take Holmes for a mas-
ter ; besides, he wanted to get back to his flock.
Corporal punishment was out of the question,
the odds were too great ; so he began to hint at
paying for the damage. Arthur jumped at this,

offering to pay any thing, and the farmer im-
mediately valued the guinea-hen at half a sov-
ereign.

“ Half a sovereign !” cried East, now released
from the farmer’s grip ; “ well, that is a good
one! the old hen ain’t hurt a bit, and she’s
seven years old, I know, and as tough as whip-
cord ; she couldn’t lay another egg to save her
life.”

It was at last settled that they should pay the
farmer two shillings, and his man one shilling,
and so the matter ended, to the unspeakable re-
lief of Tom, who hadn’t been able to say a word,
being sick at heart at the idea of what the Doc-
tor would think of him : and now the whole
party of boys marched off down the footpath
towards Rugby. Holmes, who was one of the
best boys in the school, began to improve the
occasion. “Now, you youngsters,” said he, as
he marched along in the middle of them, “ mind
this ; you’re very well out of this scrape. Don't
you go near Thompson’s barn again, do you
you hear !”

Profuse promises from all, especially East.

“Mind, I don’t ask questions,” went on Men-
tor, “but I rather think some of you have been
there before this after his chickens. Now,
knocking over other people’s chickens, and run-
ning off with them, is stealing. It’s a nasty
word, but that’s the plain English of it. If the
chickens were dead and lying in a shop, you
wouldn’t take them, I know that, any more than
you would apples out of Griffith’s basket ; but
there’s no real difference between chickens run-
ning about and apples on a tree, and the same
articles in a shop. I wish our morals were
sounder in such matters. There’s nothing so
mischievous as these school distinctions, which
jumble up right and wrong, and justify things
in us for which poor boys would be sent to pris-
on.” And good old Holmes delivered his soul
on the walk home of many wise sayings, and,
as the song says,

“ Gee’d ’em a eight of good advice

which same sermon sank into them all more or
less, and very penitent they were for several
hours. But truth compels me to admit that
East at any rate forgot it all in a week, but re-
membered the insult which had been put upon
him by Farmer Thompson, and, with the Tad-
pole and other hare-brained youngsters, com-
mitted a raid on the barn soon afterwards, in
which they were caught by the shepherds and
severely handled, besides having to pay eight
shillings — all the money they had in the world
— to escape being taken up to the Doctor.

Martin became a constant inmate in the joint
study from this time, and Arthur took to him
so kindly that Tom couldn’t resist slight fits of
jealousy, which however he managed to keep
to himself. The kestrel’s eggs had not been
broken, strange to say, and formed the nucleus
of Arthur’s collection, at which Martin worked
heart and soul ; and introduced Arthur to Hew-
lett the bird-fancier, and instructed him in the

104

TOM BKOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

rudiments of the art of stufBng. In token of
his gratitude, Arthur allowed Martin to tattoo
a small anchor on one of his wrists, which dec-
oration, however, he carefully concealed from
Tom. Before the end of the half-year he had
trained into a bold climber and good runner,
and, as Martin had foretold, knew twice as much
about trees, birds, flowers, and many other things,
as our good-hearted and facetious young friend
Harry East.

CHAPTER V.

THE FIGHT.

“ Snrgebat Macnevisius
Et inox jactabat ultro,

Puguabo tuii gratia

Feroci hoc Mactwoltro." — Etonian.

There is a certain sort of fellow — we who
are used to studying boys all know him well
enough — of whom you can predicate with al-
most positive certainty, after he has been a
month at school, that he is sure to have a fight,
and with almost equal certainty that he will
have but one. Tom Brown was one of these ;
and as it is our well-weighed intention to give
a full, true, and correct .account of Tom’s only
single combat with a schoolfellow in the man-
ner of our old friend Bell's Life, let those young
persons whose stomachs are not strong, or who
think a good set-to with the weapons which God
has given us all, an uncivilized, unchristian, or
ungentlemanly affair, just skip this chapter at
once, for it won’t be to their taste.

It was not at all usual in those days for two
School-house boys to have a fight. Of course
there were exceptions, when some cross-grained,
hard-headed fellow came up who would never
be happy unless he was quarrelling with his
nearest neighbors, or when there was some class-
dispute between the fifth form and the fags, for
instance, which required blood-letting; and a
champion was picked out on each side tacitly,
Avho settled the matter by a good hearty mill.
But for the most part, the constant use of those
surest keepers of the peace, the boxing-gloves,
kept the School-house boys from fighting one
another. Two or three nights in every week
the gloves were brought out, either in the hall
or fifth-form room ; and every boy who was
ever likely to fight at all knew all his neighbors’
prowess perfectly well, and could tell to a nicety
what chance he would have in a stand-up fight
with any other boy in the house. But of course
no such experience could be gotten as regarded
boys in other houses ; and as most of the other
houses were more or less jealous of the School-
house, collisions were frequent.

After all, what would life be without fighting,
I should like to know ? From the cradle to the
grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the busi-
ness, the real, highest, honestest business of
every son of man. Every one who is worth his
salt has his enemies, who must be beaten, be
they evil thoughts and habits in himself or spirit-
ual wickednesses in high places, or Russians,

or Border-ruffians, or Bill, Tom, or Harry, who
will not let him live his life in quiet till he has
thrashed them.

It is no good for Quakers, or any other body
of men, to uplift their voices against fighting.
Human nature is too strong for them, and they
don’t follow their own precepts. Every soul of
them is doing his own piece of fighting, some-
how and somewhere. The world might be a
better world without fighting, for any thing I
know, but it wouldn’t be our world ; and there-
fore I am dead against crying peace when there
is no peace, and isn’t meant to be. I am as
sorry as any man to see folk fighting the wrong
people and the wi’ong things, but I’d a deal
sooner see them doing that, than that they
should have no fight in them. So having re-
corded, and being about to record, my hero’s
fights of all sorts, with all sorts of enemies, I
shall now proceed to give an account of his pas-
sage-at-arms with the only one of his school-
fellows whom he ever had to encounter in this
manner.

It was drawing towards the close of Arthur’s
first half-year, and the May evenings were
lengthening out. Locking-up was not till eiglit
o’clock, and every body was beginning to talk
about what he would do in the holidays. The
shell, in which form all our dramatis personoe
now are, wei’e reading amongst other things the
last book of Homer’s Iliad, and had worked
through it as far as the speeches of the women
over Hector’s body. It is a whole school-day,
and four or five of the School-house boys (among
whom are Arthur, Tom, and East) are prepar-
ing third lesson together. They have finished
the regulation forty lines, and are for the most
part getting very tired, notwithstanding the ex-
quisite pathos of Helen’s lamentation. And now
several long four-syllabled words come together,
and the boy with the dictionary strikes work.

“lam not going to look out any more words,”
says he; “we’ve done the quantity. Ten to
one we shan’t get so far. Let’s go out into the
close.”

“ Come along, boys,” cries East, always ready
to leave “the grind,” as he called it ; “ our old
coach is laid up, you know, and we shall have
one of the new masters, who’s sure to go slow
and let us down easy.”

So an adjournment to the close was carried
nem. con., little Arthur not daring to uplift his
voice ; but, being deeply interested in what they
w.ere reading, staid quietly behind, and learnt
on for his own pleasure.

As East had said, the regular master of the
form was unwell, and they were to be heard by
one of the new masters, quite a young man, who
had only just left the University. Certainly it
would be hard lines, if, by dawdling as much
as possible in coming in and taking their places,
entering into long-winded explanations of what
was the usual course of the regular master of the
form, and others of the stock contrivances of
boys for wasting time in school, they could not
spin out the lesson so that he should not work

TOM BKOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

105

them through more than the forty lines ; as to
wliich quantity there was a perpetual fight going
on betv,^een the master and his form, the latter
insisting, and enforcing by passive resistance,
that it was the prescribed quantity of Homer for
a shell lesson, the former that there was no fixed
quantity, but that they must always be ready
to go on to fifty or sixty lines if there were time
within the hour. However, notwithstanding all
their efforts, the new master got on horribly
quick ; he seemed to have the bad taste to be
really interested in the lesson, and to be trying
to work them up into something like apprecia-
tion of it, giving them good spirited English
words, instead of the wretched bald stuff into
which they rendered poor old Homer, and con-
struing over each piece himself to them, after
each boy, to show them how it should be done.

Now the clock strikes the three-quarters ; there
is only a quarter of an hour more, but the forty
lines are all but done. So the boys, one after
another, who are called up, stick more and more,
and make balder and even more bald work of
it. The poor young master is pretty near beat
by this time, and feels ready to knock his head
against the wall, or his fingers against somebody
clse’s head. So he gives up altogether the lower
and middle parts of the form, and looks round
in despair at the boys on the top bench, to see
if there is one out of whom he can strike a spark
or two, and who will be too chivalrous to mur-
der the most beautiful utterances of the most
beautiful woman of the old world. His eye rests
on Arthur, and he calls him up to finish con-
struing Helen’s speech. Whereupon all the
other boys draw long breaths, and begin to stare
about and take it easy. They are all safe ; Ar-
thur is the head of the form, and sure to be able
to construe, and that will tide on safely till the
hour strikes.

Arthur proceeds to read out the passage in
Greek before construing it, as the custom is.
Tom, who isn’t paying much attention, is sud-
denly caught by the falter in his voice as he reads
the two lines —

uXXa (TV Tov 7’ tTTteiTcri ‘Kapai^d/xevov KartpvKe^,

Ip t’ uyavoippoavvp Ka'i aoh uYavoir e7ree<r<riv.

He looks up at Arthur. “Why, bless us, ’’thinks
he, “ what can be the matter with the young un?
He’s never going to get floored. He’s sure to
have learnt to the end.” Next moment he is
reassured by the spirited tone in which Arthur
begins construing, and betakes himself to draw-
ing dogs’ heads in his note-book, while the mas-
ter, evidently enjoying the change, turns his
back on the middle bench, and stands before
Arthur, beating a sort of time with his hand and
foot, and saying, “Yes, yes,” “Very well,” as
Arthur goes on.

But as he nears the fatal two lines, Tom catches
that falter, and again looks up. He sees that
there is something the matter : Arthur can hard-
ly get on at all. What can it be ?

Suddenly at this point Arthur breaks down
altogether, and fairly bursts out crying, and

dashes the cuff of his jacket across his eyes,
blushing up to the roots of his hair, and feeling
as if he should like to go down suddenly through
the floor. The whole form are taken aback ;
most of them stare stupidly at him, while those
who are gifted tvith presence of mind find their
places, and look steadily at their book.s, in hopes
of not catching the master’s eye, and getting
called up in Arthur’s place.

The ^master looks puzzled for a moment, and
then seeing, as the fact is, that the boy is really
affected to tears by the most touching thing in
Homer, perhaps in all profane poetry put to-
gether, steps up to him and lays his hand kind-
ly on his shoulder, saying, “ Never mind, my
little man, you’ve construed very well. Stop a
minute, there’s no hurry.”

Now, as luck would have it, there sat next
above Tom on that day, in the middle bench of
the form, a big boy, by name Williams, gener-
ally supposed to be the cock of the shell, there-
fore of all the school below the fifths. The small
boys, who are great speculators on the prowess
of their elders, used to hold forth to one another
about Williams’s great strength, and to discuss
whether East or Brown would take a licking
from him. He was called Slogger Williams,
from the force with which it was supposed he
could hit. In the main, he was a rough, good-
natured fellow enough, but very much alive to
his own dignity. He reckoned himself the king
of the form, and kept up his position with the
strong hand, especially in the matter of forcing
boys not to construe more than the legitimate
forty lines. He had already grunted and grum-
bled to himself, when Arthur went on reading
beyond the forty lines. But now that he had
broken down just in the middle of all the long
words, the Slogger’s wrath was fairly aroused.

“ Sneaking little brute,” muttered he, regard-
less of prudence, “cla])ping on the water-works
just in tlie hardest place ; see if I don’t punch
his head after fourth lesson.”

“Whose?” said Tom, to whom the remark
seemed to be addressed.

“Why, that little sneak Arthur’s,” replied
Williams.

“No, you shan’t,” said Tom.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Williams, looking at
Tom with great surprise for a moment, and then
giving him a sudden dig in the ribs with his el-
bow, which sent Tom’s books flying on to the
floor, and called the attention of the master, who
turned suddenly round, and seeing the state of
things, said —

“Williams, go down throe jilaces, and then
go on.”

The Slogger found his legs very slowly, and
proceeded to go below Tom and two other boys
with great disgust, and then, turning round and
facing the master, said, “I haven’t learnt any
more, sir ; our lesson is only forty lines.”

“ Is that so ?” said the master, appealing gen-
erally to the top bench. No answer.

“Who is the head boy of the form?” said
he, waxing wroth.

106

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

“ Arthur, sir,” answered three or four boys,
indicating our friend.

“ Oh, your name’s Arthur. Well now, what
is the length of your regular lesson ?”

Arthur hesitated a moment, and then said,
“ We call it only forty lines, sir.”

“ How do you mean, you call it ?”

“Well, sir, Mr. Graham says we ain’t to stop
there, when there’s time to construe more.”

“I understand,” said the master. “Wil-
liams, go down three more places, and write me
out the lesson in Greek and English. And
now, Arthur, finish construing.”

“Oh! would I be in Arthur’s shoes after
fourth lesson ?” said the little boys to one an-
other ; but Arthur finished Helen’s speech with-
out any further catastrophe, and the clock struck
four, which ended third lesson.

Another hour was occupied in preparing and
saying fourth lesson, during which Williams
was bottling up his wrath ; and when five struck,
and the lessons for the day were over, he pre-
pared to take summary vengeance on the inno-
cent cause of his misfortune.

Tom was detained in school a few minutes
after the rest, and on coming out into the quad-
rangle, the first thing he saw was a small ring
of boys, applauding Williams, who was holding
Arthur by the collar.

“ There, you young sneak,” said he, giving
Arthur a cuff on the head with his other hand,
“ what made you say that — ”

“Hullo!” said Tom, shouldering into the
crowd, “ you drop that, Williams ; you shan’t
touch him.”

“ Who’ll stop me?” said the Slogger, raising
his hand again.

“I,” said Tom; and suiting the action to
the word, he struck the arm which held Arthur’s
arm so sharply that the Slogger dropped it with
a start, and turned the full current of his wrath
on Tom.

“Will you fight?”

“ Yes, of course.”

“ Huzzah ! there’s going to be a fight between
Slogger Williams and ToinJBrown I”

The news ran like wildfire about, and many
boys who were on their way to tea at their sev-
eral houses turned back, and sought the back
of the chapel, where the fights come off.

“Just run and tell East to come and back
me,” said Tom to a small School-house boy,
who was off like a rocket to Harrowell’s, just
stopping for a moment to poke his head into the
School- house hall, where the lower boys were
already at tea, and sing out, “Eight! Tom
Brown and Slogger Williams.”

Up stai't half the boys at once, leaving bread,
eggs, butter, sprats, and all the rest to take care
of themselves. The greater part of the re-
mainder follow in a minute, after swallowing
tlieir tea, carrying their food in their hands to
consume as they go. Three or four only re-
main, who steal the butter of the more impet-
uous, and make to themselves an unctuous
feast.

In another minute East and Martin tear
through the quadrangle, carrying a sponge, and
arrive at the scene of action just as the combat-
ants are beginning to strip.

Tom felt he had got his work cut out for
him, as he stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, and
braces. East tied his handkerchief round his'
waist, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves for him :
“Now, old boy, don’t you open your mouth to
say a word, or try to help yourself a bit — we’ll
do all that ; you keep all your breath and
strength for the Slogger.” Martin meanwhile
folded the clothes, and put them, under the
chapel rails ; and now Tom, with East to han-
dle him, and Martin to give him a knee, steps
out on the turf, and is ready for all that may
come ; and here is the Slogger too, all stripped,
and thirsting for the fray.

It doesn’t look a fair match at first glance :
Williams is nearly two inches taller, and prob-
ably a long year older than his opponent, and
he is very strongly made about the arms and
shoulders — “peels well,” as the little knot of
big fifth-form boys, the amateurs, say ; who
stand outside the ring of little boys, looking
complacently on, but taking no active part in
the proceedings. But down below he is not so
good by any means ; no spring from the loins,
and feebleish, not to say shipwrecky about the
knees. Tom, on the contrary, though not Iialf
so strong in the arms, is good all over, straight,
hard, and springy, from neck to ankle, better
perhaps in his legs than anywhere. Besides,
you can see by the clear white of his eye, and
fresh bright look of his skin, that he is in tip-
top training, able to do all he knows ; while the
Slogger looks rather sodden, as if he didn’t take
much exercise and ate too much tuck. The
time-keeper is chosen, a large ring made, and
the two stand up opposite one another for a
moment, giving us time just to make our little
observations.

“ If Tom’ll only condescend to fight wdth his
head and heels,” as East mutters to Martin,
“ we shall do.”

But seemingly he won’t, for there he goes in,
making play with both hands. Hard all, is
the word ; the two stand to one another like
men; rally follows rally in quick succession,
each fighting as if he thought to finish the
whole thing out of hand. “Can’t last at this
rate,” say the knowing ones, while the partisans
of each make the air ring with their shouts and
counter-shouts of encouragement, approval, and
defiance.

“ Take it easy, take it easy — keep away, let
him come after you,” implores East, as he Avipes
Tom’s face after the first round with a wet
sponge, while he sits, back on Martin’s knee,
supported by the Madman’s long arms, which
tremble a little from excitement.

“ Time’s up,” calls the timekeeper.

“There he goes again, hang it all!” growls
East, as his man is at it again, as hard as ever.
A very severe round follows, in Avhich Tom
gets out and out the Avorst of it, and is at last

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

107

hit clean off his legs, and deposited on the grass
by a right-hander from the Slogger.

Loud shouts rise from the boys of Slogger’s
house, and the School-house are silent and
vicious, ready to pick quarrels anywhere.

“Two to one in half-crowns on the big un,”
says Rattle, one of the amateurs, a tall fellow,
in thunder-and-lightning waistcoat, and puffy,
good-natured face.

“Done!” says Groove, another amateur of
quieter look, taking out his note-book to enter
it, for our friend Rattle sometimes forgets these
little things.

Meantime East is freshening up Tom with

from and parrying the Slogger’s lunging hits,
instead of trying to counter, and leading his
enemy a dance all round the ring after him.
“ He’s funking — go in Williams;” “ Catch him
up;” “Finish him off,” scream the small boys
of the Slogger party.

“Just what we want,” thinks East, chuckling
to himself, as he sees Williams, excited by these
shouts, and thinking the game in his own
hands, blowing himself in his exertions to get
to close quarters again, while Tom is keeping
away with perfect ease.

They quarter over the ground again and
again, Tom always on the defensive.

THE FIGUT.

the sponges for next round, and has set two
other boys to rub his hands.

“ Tom, old boy,” whispers he, “ this may be
fun for you, but it’s death to me. He’ll hit all
the fight out of you in another five minutes, and
then I shall go and drown myself in the island
ditch. Feint him — use your legs ! draw him
about! he’ll lose his wind then in no time, and
you can go in to him. Hit at his body too;
we’ll take care of his frontispiece by-and-by.”

Tom felt the wisdom of the counsel, and saw
-nlready that he couldn’t go in and finish the
Slogger off at mere hammer and tongs, so
changed his tactics completely in the third
round. He now fights cautiously, getting away

The Slogger pulls up at last for a moment,
fairly blown.

“Now then, Tom,” sings out East, dancing
with delight. Tom goes in in a twinkling, and
hits two heavy body-blows, and gets away again
before the Slogger can catch his wind ; which
when he does he rushes with blind fury at
Tom, and being skillfully parried and avoided,
overreaches himself and falls on his face,
amidst terrific cheers from the School-house
boys.

“Double your two to one?” says Groove to
Rattle, note-book in hand.

“ Stop a bit,” says that hero, looking uncom-
fortably at Williams, who is puffing away on

lOS

TOM BROWN S SCHOOL DAYS.

liis second’s knee, winded enough, but little the
worse in any other way.

After another round the Slogger too seems
to see that he can’t go in and win right off, and
has met his match or thereabouts. So he too
begins to use his head, and tries to make Tom
lose his patience, and come in before his time.
And so the fight sways on, now one, and now
the other getting a trifling pull.

Tom’s face begins to look very one-sided —
there are little queer bumps on his forehead,
and his mouth is bleeding; but East keeps the
wet sponge going so scientifically that he comes
u]) looking as fresh and bright as ever. Wil-
liams is only slightly marked in the face, but
by the nervous movement of his elbows you
can see that Tom’s body-blows are telling. In
fact, half the vice of the Slogger’s hitting is
neutralized, for he daren’t lunge out freely for
fear of exposing his sides. It is too interesting
by this time for much shouting, and the whole
ring is very quiet.

“All right. Tommy,” whispers East; “hold
on’s the horse that’s to win. We’ve got the
last. Keep your head, old boy.”

But where is Arthur all this time? Words
can not paint the poor little fellow’s distress.
He couldn’t muster courage to come up to the
ring, but wandered up and down from the great
fives’-court to the corner of the chapel rails —
now trying to make up his mind to throw him-
self between them, and try to stop them ; then
thinking of running in and telling his friend
Mary, who he knew would instantly report to
the Doctor. The stories he had heard of men
being killed in prize-fights rose up horribly be-
fore him.

Once only, when the shouts of “Well done.
Brown!” “Huzzah for the School-house!” rose
higher than ever, he ventured up to the ring,
thinking the victory was won. Catching sight
of Tom’s face in the state I have described, all
fear of consequences vanishing out of his mind,
he rushed straight off to the matron’s room, be-
seeching her to get the fight stopped, or he
should die.

But it’s time for us to get back to the close.
What is this fierce tumult and confusion ?
The ring is broken, and high and angry words
are being bandied about; “It’s all fair” — “It
isn’t” — “No hugging;” the fight is stopped.
The combatants, however, sit there quietly,
tended by their seconds, while their adherents
wrangle in the middle. East can’t help shout-
ing challenges to two or three of the other side,
though he never leaves Tom for a moment, and
plies the sponges as fast as ever.

The fact is, that at the end of the last round,
Tom, seeing a good opening, had closed with
his opponent, and after a moment’s struggle had
thrown him heavily, by help of the fall he had
learnt from his village rival in the vale of
White Horse. Williams hadn’t the ghost of a
chance with Tom at wrestling ; and the convic-
tion broke at once on the Slogger faction that if
this were allowed, their man must be licked.

There was a strong feeling in the school against
catching hold and throwing, though it was gen-
erally ruled all fair within certain limits ; so
the ring was broken, and the fight stopped.

The School-house are overruled— the fight is
on again, but there is to be no throwing ; and
East in high wrath threatens to take his man
away after next round (which he don’t mean to
do, by-the-way), when suddenly Young Brooke
comes through the small gate at the end of the
chapel. The School-house faction rush to him.
“ Oh, hurrah ! now we shall get fair play.”

“Please, Brooke, come up; they won’t let
Tom Brown throw him.”

“ Throw whom ?” says Brooke, coming up to
the ring. “Oh! Williams, I see. Nonsense!
of course he may throw him if he catches him
fairly above the waist.”

Now, Young Brooke, you’re in the sixth, you
know, and you ought to stop all fights. Ho
looks hard at both boys. “Any thing wrong?”
says he to East, nodding at Tom.

“ Not a bit.”

“ Not beat at all ?”

“ Bless you, no ! heaps of fight in him.
Ain’t there, Tom ?”

Tom looks at Brooke, and grins.

“ How’s he ?” nodding at Williams.

“So so; rather done, I think, since his last
fall. He won’t stand above two more.”

“Time’s up!” the boys rise again, and face
one another. Brooke can’t find it in his heart
to stop them just yet, so the round goes on, the
Slogger waiting for Tom, and reserving all his
strength to hit him out should he come in for
the wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that
must be stopped, or his sponge will soon go up
in the air.

And now another new-comer appears on the
field, to wit, the under-porter, with his long
brush and great wooden receptacle for dust un-
der his arm. He has been sweeping out the
schools.

“You’d better stop, gentlemen,” he says;
“ the Doctor knows that Brown’s fighting — he’ll
be out; in a minute.”

“ You go to Bath, Bill,” is all that that ex-
cellent servitor gets by his advice. And being
a man of his hands, and a stanch upholder of
the School-house, can’t help stopping to look on
for a bit, and see Tom Brown, their pet crafts-
man, fight a round.

It is grim earnest now, and no mistake.
Both boys feel this, and summon every power
of head, hand, and eye to their aid. A piece
of luck on either side, a foot slipping, a blow
getting well home, or another fall, may decide
it. Tom works slowly round for an opening ;
he has all the legs, and can choose his own
time : the Slogger waits for the attack, and
hopes to finish it by some heavy right-handed
blow. As they quarter slowly over the ground,
the evening sun comes out from behind a cloud,
and falls full on Williams’s face. Tom darts
in, the heavy right-hand is delivered, but only
grazes his head. A short rally at close quar-

TOM BROWN’S

ters. and they close ; in another moment the
Slogger is thrown again heavily for the third
time.

“ I’ll give you three to two on the little one
in half-crowns,” said Groove to Rattle.

“ No, thank’ee,” answers the other, diving
his hands farther into his coat-tails.

Just at this stage of the proceedings the door
of the turret which leads to the Doctor’s library
suddenly opens, and he steps into the close, and
makes straight for the ring, in w'hich Brown and
the Slogger are both seated on their seconds’
knees for the last time.

“The Doctor! the Doctor!” shouts some
small boy who catches sight of him, and the
ring melts aw'ay in a few seconds, the small
boys tearing off, Tom collaring his jacket and
waistcoat, and slipping through the little gate
by the chapel, and round the corner to Harro-
well’s with his backers, as lively as need be ;
Williams and his backers making off not quite
so fast across the close ; Groove, Rattle, and the
other bigger fellows trying to combine dignity
and prudence in a comical manner, and walk-
ing off fast enough, they hope, not to be recog-
nized, and not fast enough to look like running
away.

Young Brooke alone remains on the ground
by the time the Doctor gets there, and touches
his hat, not without a slight inward qualm.

“ Hah ! Brooke. I am surprised to see you
here. Don’t you know that I expect the sixth
•to stop fighting.”

Brooke felt much more uncomfortable than
be had expected, but he was rather a favor-
ite with the Doctor for his openness and plain-
ness of speech ; so blurted out, as he walked
by the Doctor’s side, who had already turned
back —

“Yes, sir, generally. But I thought you
wished us to exercise a discretion in the matter,
too — not to interfere too soon.”

“ But they have been fighting this half-hour
and more,” said the Doctor.

“Yes, sir; but neither was hurt. And
they’re the sort of boys who’ll be all the better
friends now, which they wouldn’t have been if
they had been stopped any earlier — before it
w'as so equal.”

“ Who was fighting with Brown ?” said the
Doctor.

“ Williams, sir, of Thompson’s. He is big-
ger than Brown, and had the best of it at first,
but not when you came up, sir. There’s a good
deal of jealousy between our house and Thomp-
son’s, and there would have been more fights if
tins hadn’t been let go on, or if either of them
had had much the worst of it,”

“Well but, Brooke,” said the Doctor, “doesn’t
this look a little as if you exercised your dis-
cretion by only stopping a fight when the School-
house boy is getting the worst of it?”

Brooke, it must be confessed, felt rather grav-
elled.

“Now remember,” added the Doctor, as he
stopped at the turret-door, “ this fight is not to

SCHOOL DAYS. 109

go on — you’ll see to that. And I expect you
to stop all figlits in future at once.”

“Very well, sir,” said Young Brooke, touch-
ing his hat, and not sorry to see the turret-door
close behind the Doctor’s back.

Meantime Tom and the stanchest of his ad-
herents had reached Harrowell’s, and Sally was
bustling about to get them a late tea, while
Stumps had been sent off to Tew the butcher,
to get a piece of raw beef for Tom’s eye, which
was to be healed off-hand, so that he might
show well in the morning. He was not a bit
the worse exeept a slight difficulty in his vision,
a singing in his ears, and a sprained thumb,
which he kept in a cold-water bandage, while
he drank lots of tea, and listened to the Babel
of voices talking and speculating of nothing but
the fight, and how Williams would have given
in after another fall (which he didn’t in the least
believe), and how on earth the Doctor could
have got to know of it — such bad luck ! He
couldn’t help thinking to himself that he was
glad he hadn’t won ; he liked it better as it was,
and felt very friendly to the Slogger, And then
poor little Arthur crept in and sat down quietly
near him, and kept looking at him and the raw
beef with such plaintive looks that Tom at last
burst out laughing.

“Don’t make such eyes, young un,” said he,
“there’s nothing the matter.”

“Oh, but, Tom, are you much hurt ? I can’t
bear thinking it was all for me.”

“Not a bit of it, don’t flatter yourself. We
were sure to have had it out sooner or later.”

“ Well, but you won’t go on, will you ? You’ll
promise me you won’t go on ?”

“ Can’t tell about that — all depends on the
houses. We’re in the hands of our country-
men, you know. Must fight for the School-
house fag, if so be.”

However, the lovers of the science were doom-
ed to disappointment this time. Directly after
locking-up, one of the night fags knocked at
Tom’s door.

“ Brown, Young Brooke wants you in the
sixth-form room.”

Up went Tom to the summons, and found the
magnates sitting at their supper.

“ Well, Brown,” said Young Brooke, nodding
to him, “how do you feel?”

“ Oh, very well, thank you, only I’ve sprained
my thumb, I think.”

“ Sure to do that in a fight. Well, you hadn’t
the worst of it, I could see. Where did you
learn that throw?” •

“Down in the country, when I was a boy.”
“Hullo! why, what are you now? Well,
never mind, you’re a plucky fellow. Sit down
and have some supper.”

Tom obeyed, by no means loath. And the
fifth-form boy next him filled him a tumbler of
bottled beer, and he ate and drank, listening to
the pleasant talk, and wondering how soon he
should be in the fifth, and one of that much-
envied society.

As he got up to leave, Brooke said, “ You

110

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

must shake hands to-morrow morning ; I shall
come and see that done after first lesson.”

And so he did. And Tom and the Slogger
shook hands with great satisfaction and mutual
respect. And for the next year or two, when-
ever fights were being talked of, the small boys
who had been present shook their heads wisely,
saying, “Ah! but you should just have seen
the fight between Slogger Williams and Tom
Brown !”

And now, boys all, three words before we quit
the subject. I have put in this chapter on fight-
ing of malice prepense, partly because I want to
give you a true picture of what every-day school
life was in my time, and not a kid-glove and go-
to-meeting-coat picture ; and partly because of
the cant and twaddle that’s talked of boxing and
fighting with fists nowadays. Even Thackei'ay
has given in to it ; and only a few weeks ago
there was some rampant stuff in the Times on
the subject, in an article on field sports.

Boys will quarrel, and when they quarrel will
sometimes fight. Fighting with fists is the
natural and English way for English boys to
settle their quarrels. What substitute for it is
there, or ever was there, amongst any nation
under the sun ? What would you like to see
take its place ?

Learn to box, then, as you learn to play
cricket and football. Not one of you will be
the worse, but very much the better foiTearning
to box well. Should you never have to use it
in earnest, there’s no exercise in the world so
good for the temper, and for the muscles of the
back and legs.

As to fighting, keep out of it if you can, by
all means. When the time comes, if it ever
should, that you have to say “Yes” or “No”
to a challenge to fight, say “No ” if you can —
only take care you make it clear to yourselves
why you say “No.” It’s a proof of the highest
courage, if done from true Christian motives.
It’s quite right and justifiable, if done from a
simple aversion to physical pain and danger.
But don’t say “ No ” because you fear a licking,
and say or think it’s because you fear God, for
that’s neither Christian nor honest. And if
you do fight, fight it out ; and don’t give in
while you can stand and see.

CHAPTER VI.

FEVER IN THE SCHOOL.

“Tliis our liope for all that’s mortal
And we too sliall burst the bond ;

Death keeps watch beside the portal,

But ’tis life that dwells beyond.”

John Sterling.

Two years have passed since the events re-
corded in the last chapter, and the end of the
summer half-year is again drawing on. Mar-
tin has left and gone on a cruise in the South
Pacific in one of his , uncle’s ships ; the old
magpie, as disreputable as ever, his last bequest
to Arthur, lives in the joint study. Arthur is

nearly sixteen, and at the head of the twenty,
having gone up the school at the rate of a form
a half-year. East and Tom have been much
more deliberate in tlieir progress, and are only
a little way up the fifth form. Great strapping
boys they are, but still thorough boys, filling
about the same place in the house that Young
Brooke filled when they were new boys, and
much the same sort of fellows. Constant inter-
course with Arthur has done much for both of
them, especially for Tom; but much remains yet
to be done, if they are to get all the good out of
Rugby which is to be got there in these times.
Arthur is still frail and delicate, with more spirit
than body; but, thanks to his intimacy with them
and Martin, has learned to swim, and run, and
play cricket, and has never hurt himself by too
much reading.

One evening, as they were all sitting down
to supper in the fifth-form room, some one
started a report that a fever had broken out at
one of the boarding-houses; “They say,” he
added, “ that Thompson is very ill, and that
Dr. Robertson has been sent for from North-
ampton.”

“Then we shall all be sent home,” cried an-
other. “ Hurrah ! five weeks’ extra holidays,
and no fifth-form examination !”

“I hope not,” said Tom; “there’ll be no
Marylebone match then at the end of the half.”

Some thought one thing, some another ; many
didn’t believe the report ; but the next day,
Tuesday, Dr. Robertson arrived, and staid all
day, and had long conferences wdth the Doctor.

On Wednesday morning, after prayers, the
Doctor addressed the whole school. There
were several cases of fever in different houses,
he said ; but Dr. Robertson, after the most care-
ful examination, had assured him that it was
not infectious, and that if proper care were
taken, there could be no reason for stopping the
school-work at present. The examinations
were just coming on, and it would be very un-
advisable to break up now. However, any
boys who chose to do so were at liberty to write
home, and, if their parents wished it, to leave
at once. He should send the whole school
home if the fever spread.

The next day Arthur sickened, but there was
no other case. Before the end of the week
thirty or forty boys had gone, but the rest staid
on. There was a general wish to please tlie
Doctor, and a feeling that it wms cowardly to
run away.

On the Saturday Thompson died, in the
bright afternoon, while the cricket-match was go-
ing on as usual on the big-side ground : the Doe-
Lor'coming from his death-bed, passed along the
gravel-walk at the side of the close, but no one
knew what had happened till the next day. At
morning lecture it began to be rumored, and by
afternoon chapel was known generally ; and a
feeling of seriousness and awe at the actual pres-
ence of death among them came over the whole
school. In all the long years of his ministry
the Doctor perhaps never spoke words which

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

sank deeper than some of those in that day’s
sermon. “When I came yesterday from visit-
ing all but the very death-bed of him who has
been taken from us, and looked around upon all
the familiar objects and scenes within our own
ground, where your common amusements were
going on, with your common cheerfulness and
activity, I felt there was nothing painful in wit-
nessing that ; it did not seem in any way shock-
ing or out of tune with those feelings which the
sight of a dying Cliristian must be supposed to
awaken. The unsuitableness in point of natu-
ral feeling between scenes of mourning and
scenes of liveliness did not at all present itself.
But I did feel that if at that moment any of
tliose faults had been brought before me which
sometimes occur amongst us ; had I heard that
any of you had been guilty of falsehood, or of
drunkenness, or of any other such sin ; had I
heard from any quarter the language of pro-
faneness, or of unkindness, or of indecency;
had I heard or seen any signs of that wretched
folly which courts the laugh of fools by affecting
not to dread evil and not to care for good, then
the unsuitableness of any of these things w'ith
the scene I had just quitted would indeed have
been most intensely painful. And why ? Not
because such things would really have been
worse than at any other time, but because at
such a moment the eyes are opened really to
know good and evil, because we then feel what
it is so to live as that death becomes an infinite
blessing, and what it is so to live also, that it
vvere good for us if we had never been born.”

Tom had gone into chapel in sickening anx-
iety about Arthur, but he came out cheered and
strengthened by those grand words, and walked
up alone to their study. And when he sat
down and looked round, and saw Arthur’s straw
hat and cricket-jacket hanging on their pegs,
and marked all his neat little arrangements, not
one of which had been disturbed, the tears in-
deed rolled down his cheeks, but they were
calm and blessed tears, and he repeated to him-
self, “Yes, Geordie’s eyes are opened — he knows
w'hat it is so to live as that death becomes an in-
finite blessing. But do I ? O God, can I bear
to lose him ?”

The week passed mournfully aw’ay. No more
boys sickened, but Arthur w-as reported worse
each day, and his mother arrived early in the
week. Tom made many appeals to be allowed
to see him, and several times tried to get up to
the sick-room : but the housekeeper W'as always
in the way, and at last spoke to the Doctor, who
kindly but peremptorily forbade him.

Thompson was buried on the Tuesday, and
the burial service, so soothing and grand always,
but beyond all words solemn when read over a
boy’s grave to his companions, brought him
much comfort, and many strange new thoughts
and longings. He went back to his regular
life, and played cricket and bathed as usual : it
seemed to him that this was the right thing to
do, and the new thoughts and longings became
more brave and healthy for the effort. The cri-

sis came on Saturday, tlie day week that Thomp-
son had died ; and during that long afternoon
Tom sat in his study reading his Bible, and go-
ing every half hour to the housckecjier’s room,
expecting each time to hear that the gentle and
brave little spirit had gone home. But God had
work for Arthur to do : the crisis passed — on
Sunday evening he w'as declared out of danger ;
on Monday he sent a message to Tom tliat he
was almost well, had changed his room, and was
to be allowed to see him the next day.

It was evening when the housekeeper sum-
moned him to the sick-room. Arthur was lying
on the sofa by the open w'indow, through which
the rays of the western sun stole gently, lighting
up his white face and golden hair. Tom re-
membered a German picture of an angel which
he knew ; often had he thought how transpar-
ent and golden and spirit-like it was ; and he
shuddered to think how like it Arthur looked,
and felt a shock as if his blood had all stopped
short, as he realized how near the other world
his friend must have been to look like tliat.
Never till that moment had he felt how his lit-
tle chum had twined himself round his heart-
strings ; and as he stole gently across the room
and knelt down, and put his arm round Arthur’s
head on the pillow, felt ashamed and half angry
at his own red and brown face, and the bounding
sense of health and power which filled every
fibre of his body, and made every movement of
mere living a joy to him. lie needn’t have
troubled himself ; it was this very strength and
power so different from his own which drew
Arthur so to him.

Arthur laid his thin, white hand, on which
the blue veins stood out so plainly, on Tom’s
great brown fist, and smiled at him, and then
looked out of the window again, as if he couldn’t
bear to lose a moment of the sunset, into the
tops of the great feathery elms, round which
the rooks were circling and clanging, returning
in flocks from their evening’s foraging-parties.
The elms rustled, the sparrows in the ivy just
outside the window chirped and fluttered about,
quarrelling, and making it up again ; the rooks,
young and old, talked in chorus ; and the mer-
ry shouts of the boys, and the sweet click of the
cricket-bats, came up cheerily from below.

“Dear George,” said Tom, “I am so glad to
be let up to see you at last. I’ve tried hard to
come so often, but they wouldn’t let me before.”

“ Oh, I know, Tom ; Mary has told me every
day about you, and how she was obliged to
make the Doctor speak to you to keep you away.
I’m very glad you didn’t get up, for you might
have caught it, and you couldn’t stand being ill
with all tlie matches going on. And you’re in
the eleven, too, I hear — I’m so glad.”

“Yes, ain’t it jolly?” said Tom proudly;
“I’m ninth too. I made forty at the last pie-
match, and caught three fellows out. So I was
put in above Jones and Tucker. Tucker’s so
savage, for he was head of the twenty-two.”

“Well, I think you ought to be higher yet,”
said Arthur, who was as jealous for the renown

112

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

of Tom in games, as Tom was for his as a schol-
ar.

“Never mind, I don’t care about cricket or
any thing now you’re getting well, Geordie ; and
I shouldn’t have hurt, I know, if they’d have let

feed the old magpie just when you used, though
I have to come in from big-side for him, the old
rip. He won’t look pleased all I can do, and
sticks his head first on one side and then on the
other, and blinks at me before he’ll begin to eat.

Toil’s VISIT TO AETUUE AFTEE THE FEVEE.

mo come up — nothing hurts me. But you’ll
get about now directly, won’t you? You won’t
liclieve how clean I’ve kept the study. All
your things are just as you left them; and I

till I’m half inclined to box his ears. And
whenever East comes in, you should sec him
hop off to the window, dot and go one, though
Harry wouldn’t touch a feather of him now.”

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

113

Arthur laugheJ. “Old Gravey has a good
memory; he can’t forget the sieges of poor
Martin’s den in old times.” Pie paused a mo-
ment, and then went on, “You can’t think
how often I’ve been thinking of old Martin since
I’ve been ill ; I suppose one’s mind gets restless,
and likes to wander off to strange, unknown
places. I wonder what queer new pets the old
boy has got; how he must be revelling in the
thousand new birds, beasts, and fislies.”

Tom felt a pang of jealousy, but kicked it out
in a moment, “Fancy him on a South-sea
island, with the Cherokees or Patagonians, or
some such wild niggers ” (Tom’s ethnology and
geography were faulty, but sufficient for his
needs); “they’ll make the old Madman eock
medicine-man and tattoo him all over. Per-
haps he’s cutting about now all blue, and has a
squaw and a wigwam. He’ll improve their
boomerangs, and be able to throw them too,
Avithout having old Thomas sent after him by
the Doctor to take them awmy.”

Arthur laughed at the remembrance of the
boomerang story, but then looked grave again,
and said, “He’ll convert all the island, I know.”
“Yes, if he don’t blow it up first,”

“ Do you remember, Tom, how you and East
used to laugh at him and chaff him, because he
said he was sure the rooks all had calling-over
or prayers, or something of the sort, when the
locking-up bell rang? Well, I declare,” said
Arthur, looking up seriously into Tom’s laugh-
ing eyes, “ I do think he was right. Since I’ve
been lying here. I’ve watched them every night ;
and do you know, they really do come, and
pei'ch all of them just about locking-up time;
and then first there’s a regular chorus of caws,
and then they stop a bit, and one old fellow, or
perhaps tw'o or three in different trees, caw so-
los, and then off they all go again, fluttering
about and cawing anyhow till they roost.”

“I Avonder if the old blackies do talk,” said
Tom, looking up at them. “ Hoav they must
abuse me and East, and pray for the Doctor for
stopping the slinging!”

“There! look, look!” cried Arthur, “don’t
you see the old fellow Avitliout a tail coming up ?
Martin used to call him the ‘clerk.’ He can’t
steer himself. You never saAv such fun as he is
in a high Avind, Avhen he can’t steer himself
home, and gets carried right past the trees, and
has to bear up again and again before he can
perch.”

The locking-up bell began to toll, and the tAvo
boys were silent, and listened to it. The sound
soon carried Tom off’ to the riA'er and the Avoods,
and he began to go over in his mind the many
occasions on Avhich he had heard that toll com-
ing faintly down the breeze, and had to pack his
rod in a hurry, and make a run for it, to get in
before the gates Avere shut. He was roused with
a start from his memories by Arthur’s voice,
gentle and Aveak from his late illness.

“ Tom, Avill you be angry if I talk to you very
seriously ?”

“ No, dear old bov, not I, But ain’t you faint,
8

Arthur, or ill ? What can I get you ? Don’t
say any thing to hurt yourself noAV — you are very
weak ; let me come up again.”

“No, no, I shan’t hurt myself: Pd sooner
speak to you noAv, if you don’t mind. I’ve asked
Mary to tell the Doctor that you are Avith me,
so you needn’t go doAvn to calling-over ; and I
mayn’t have another chance, for I shall most
likely have to go home for change of air to got
Avell, and mayn’t come back this half.”

“ Oh, do you think you, must go aAvay before
the end of the half? I’m so sorry. It’s more
than five weeks yet to the holidays, and all the
fifth-form examination and half the cricket
matches to come yet. And Avhat shall I do all
that time alone in our study? Why, Arthur,
it Avill be more than twelve weeks before I see
you again. Oh, hang it, I can’t stand that!
Besides, Avho’s to keep me up to Avorking at the
examination-books? I shall come out bottom
of the form, as sure as eggs is eggs.”

Tom was rattling on, half in joke, half in ear-
nest, for he Avanted to get Arthur out of his seri-
ous vein, thinking it Avould do him harm ; but
Arthur broke in —

“Oh, please, Tom, stop, or you’ll drive all I
had to say out of my head. And I’m already
horribly afraid I’m going to make you angry.”
“Don’t gammon, young un,” rejoined Tom
(the use of the old name, dear to him from old
recollections, made Arthur start and smile, and
feel quite happy) ; “ you knoAv you ain’t afraid,
and you’ve never made me angry since the first
month Ave chummed together. Now I’m going
to be quite sober for a quarter of an hour, Avhicli
is more than I am once in a year ; so make the
most of it; heave ahead, and pitch into me right
and left.”

“ Dear Tom, I ain’t going to pitch into you,”
said Arthur, piteously ; “and it seems so cocky
in me to be advising you, Avho’ve been my back-
bone ever since I’ve been at Rugby, and have
made the school a paradise to me. Ah, I see
I shall neA'er do it, unless I go head-ov'er-heels
at once, as you said Avhen you taught me to SAvim.
Tom, I want you to gh'e up using vulgus-books
and cribs.”

Artliur sank back on to his pilloAv Avith a sigh,
as if the effort had been great ; but the Avorst
Avas now OA-er, and he looked straight at Tom,
Avho Avas CA'idently taken aback. He leant his
elbows on his knees, and stuck his hands into
his hair, Avhistled a verse of “Billy Taylor,”
and then Avas quite silent for another minute.
Not a shade crossed his face, but he Avas clearly
puzzled. At last he looked up, and caught Ar-
thur’s anxious look, took his hand, and said sim-

pb’—

“Why, young un?”

“ Because you’re the honestest boy in Rugby,
and that ain’t honest.”

“I don’t see that.”

“What AA'ereyou sent to Rugby for?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly — nobody ever
told me. I suppose because all boys are sent
to a public school in England.”

114

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

“But what do you think yourself? What
do you want to do here, and to carry away ?”
Tom thought a minute. “ I want to be A 1
at cricket and football, and all the other games,
and to make my hands keep my head against
any fellow, lout or gentleman. I want to get
into the sixth before I leave, and to please the
Doctor; and I want to carry away just as much
Latin and Greek as will take me through Ox-
ford respectably. There now, young un, I never
thought of it before, but that’s pretty much about
my figure. Ain’t it all on the square ? What
have you got to say to that ?”

“Why, that you are pretty sure to do all that
you want, then.”

“ Well, I hope so. Hut you’ve forgot one
thing, what I want to leave behind me. I want
to leave behind m&,” said Tom, speaking slow,
and looking much moved, “ the name of a fel-
low who never bullied a little boy, or turned his
back on a big one.”

Arthur pressed his hand, and after a moment’s
silence went on: “You say, Tom, you want
to please the Doctor. Now, do you want to
please him by what he thinks you do, or by what
you really do?”

“By what I really do, of course.”

“Does ho think you use cribs and vulgus-
books ?”

Tom felt at once that his flank was turned,
but he couldn’t give in. “He was at Winches-
ter himself,” said he ; “he knows all about it.”
“ Yes, but does he think you use them ? Do
you think he approves of it ?”

“You young villain !” said Tom, shaking his
fist at Arthur, half vexed and half pleased, “I
never think about it. Hang it — there, perhaps
he don’t. Well, I suppose he don’t.”

Arthur saw that he had got his point ; he
knew his friend well, and was wise in silence as
in speech. He only said, “I would sooner have
the Doctor’s good opinion of me as 1 really am,
than any man’s in the world.”

After another minute, Tom began again :
“Look here, young un, how on earth am I to
get time to play the matches this half, if I give
up cribs? We’re in the middle of that long
crabbed chorus in the Agamemnon ; I can only
just make head or tail of it with the crib. Then
there’s Pericles’s speech coming on in Thucyd-
ides, and ‘ the Birds ’ to get up for the exami-
nation, besides the Tacitus.” Tom groaned at
the thought of his accumulated labors. “I say,
young un, there’s only five weeks or so left to
holidays ; mayn’t I go on as usual for this half?
I'll tell the Doctor about it some day, or you
may.”

Arthur looked out of the window ; the twilight
had come on, and all was silent. He repeated
in a low voice, “ In this thing the Lord pardon
thy servant, that when my master goeth into the
house of Rimmon, to worship there, and he
leaneth on my hand, and I bow down myself in
the house of Rimmon, when I bow down myself
in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon thy
servant in this thing.”

Not a word more was said on the subject, and
the boys were again silent — one of those blessed,
short silences in which the resolves which color
a life are so often taken.

Tom was the first to break it. “ You’ve been
very ill indeed, haven’t you, Geordie ?” said he,
with a mixture of awe and curiosity, feeling as
if his friend had been in some strange place or
scene, of which he could form no idea, and full
of the memory of his own thoughts during the
last week.

“Yes, very. I’m sure the Doctor thought I
was going to die. He gave me the Sacrament
last Sunday, and you can’t think what he is
when one is ill. He said such brave, and ten-
der, and gentle things to me, I felt quite light
and strong after it, and never had any more fear.
My mother brought our old medical man, who
attended me when I was a poor sickly child ;
he said my constitution was quite changed, and
tliat I’m fit for any thing now. If it hadn’t, I
couldn’t have stood three days of this illness.
That’s all thanks to you, and the games you’ve
made me fond of.”

“More thanks to old Martin,” said Tom;
“he’s been your real friend.”

“Nonsense, Tom ; he never could have done
for me what you have.”

“Well, I don’t know; I did little enough.
Did they tell you — ^j'ou won’t mind hearing it
now, I know — that poor Thompson died last
week ? The other three boys are getting quite
round, like you.”

“ Oh yes, I heard of it.”

Then Tom, who was quite full of it, told
Arthur of the burial service in the chapel, and
how it had impressed him and, he believed, all
the other boys. ‘ ‘ And though the Doctor never
said a word about it,” said he, “and it was a
half-holiday and match day, there wasn’t a
game played in the close all the afternoon, and
the boys all went about as if it were Sunday.”
“I’m very glad of it,” said Arthur. “But,
Tom, I’ve had such strange thoughts about
death lately. I’ve never told a soul of them,
not even my mother. Sometimes I think they’re
wrong, but, do you know, I don’t think in my
heart I could be sorry at the death of any of my
friends.”

Tom was taken quite aback. “ What in the
world is the young un after now ?” thought he ;
“I’ve swallowed a good many of his crotclicts,
but this altogether beats me. He can’t be quite
right in his head.” He didn’t want to say a
word, and shifted about uneasily in the dark;
however, Arthur seemed to be waiting for an
answer, so at last he said, “ I don’t think I
quite see what you mean, Geordie. One’s told
so often to think about death, that I’ve tried it
on sometimes, especially this last week. But
we won’t talk of it now. I’d better go — you’re
getting tired, and I shall do you harm.”

“No, no, indeed I ain’t, Tom ; you must stop
till nine, there’s only twenty minutes. I’ve set-
tled you shall stop till nine. And oh ! do let
me talk to you — I must talk to you. I see it’s

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

115

just as I feared. You thiuk I’m half mad —
don’t you now ?”

“Well, I did think it odd what you said,
Geordie, as you ask me.”

Arthur paused a moment, and then said
quickly, “ I’ll tell you how it all happened.
At first, when I was sent to the sick-room, and
found I had really got the fever, I was terribly
frightened. I thought I should die, and I could
not face it for a moment. I don’t think it was
sheer cowardice at first, but I thought how hard
it was to be taken away from my mother and
sisters, and you all, just as I was beginning to
see my way to many things, and to feel that I
might be a man, and do a man’s work. To die
without having fought, and worked, and given
one’s life away, was too hard to bear. I got ter-
ribly impatient, and accused God of injustice,
and strove to justify myself ; and the harder I
strove the deeper I sank. Then the image of
my dear father often came across me, but I
turned from it. Whenever it came, a heavy
numbing throb seemed to take hold of my heart,
and say, ‘ Dead— dead — dead.’ And I cried out,
‘ The living, the living shall praise Thee, O God ;
the dead can not praise Thee. There is no work
in the grave : in the night no man can work.
But I can work. I can do great things. I will
do great things. Why wilt Thou slay me?’
And so I struggled and plunged, deeper and
deeper, and went down into a living black tomb.
I was alone there, with no power to stir or think ;
alone with myself; beyond the reach of all
human fellowship ; beyond Christ’s reach, I
thought, in my nightmare. You, who are brave
and bright . and strong, can have no idea of that
agony. Pray to God you never may. Pray as
for your life.”

Arthur stopped — from exhaustion, Tom
thought ; but what between his fear lest Arthur
should hurt himself, his awe, and longing for
him to go on, he couldn’t ask, or stir to help
him.

Presently he went on, but quite calm and
slow. “ I don’t know how long I was in that
state. For more than a day, I know ; for I was
quite conscious, and lived my outer life all the
time, and took my medicines, and spoke to my
mother, and heard what they said. But I didn’t
take much note of time ; I thought time was over
for me, and that that tomb was what was be-
yond. Well, on last Sunday morning, as I
seemed to lie in that tomb, alone, as I thought,
for ever and ever, the black dead wall was cleft
in two, and I was caught up and borne through
into the light by some great power, some living
mighty spirit. Tom, do you remember the liv-
ing creatures and the wheels in Ezekiel ? It
was just like that: ‘When they went, I heard
the noise of their wings, like the noise of great
waters, as the voice of the Almighty, the voice
of speech, as the noise of an host ; when they
stood, they let down their wings’ — ‘and they
went every one straight forward ; whither the
spirit was to go they went, and they turned not
when they went.’ And we rushed through the

bright air, which was full of myriads of living
cre.atures, and paused on the brink of a great
river. And the power held me up, and I knew
that that great river was the grave, and death
dwelt there ; but not the death I had met in the
black tomb — that I felt was gone forever. For on
the other bank of the great river I saw men and
women and children rising up pure and bright,
and the tears were wiped from their eyes, and
they put on glory and strength, and all weari-
ness and pain fell away. And beyond were a
multitude which no man could number, and
they worked at some great work ; and they who
rose from the river went on and joined in the
work. They all worked, and each worked in a
different way, but all at the same work. And
I saw there my father, and the men in the old
town whom I knew when I was a child ; many
a hard stern man, who never came to church,
and whom they called atheist and infidel. There
they were, sicle by side with my father, whom I
had seen toil and die for them, and women and
little children, and the seal was on the foreheads
of all. And I longed to see what the work was,
and could not ; so I tried to plunge in the river,
for I thought I would join them, but I could not.
Then I looked about to see how they got into
the river. And this I could not see, but I saw
myriads on this side, and they too worked, and
I knew that it was the same work ; and the same
seal was on their foreheads. And though I saw
that there was toil and anguish in the work of
these, and that most that were Avorking were
blind and feeble, yet I longed no more to plunge
into the riv'er, but more and more to know Avhat
the work was. And as I looked I saAv my moth-
er and my sisters, and I saw the Doctor, and
you, Tom, and hundreds more whom I knew ;
and at last I saw myself too, and I was toiling
and doing eA'er so little a piece of the great work.
Then it all melted aAvay, and the power left me,
and as it left me I thought I heard a voice say,
‘The vision is for an appointed time; though it
tarry, wait for it, for in the end it shall speak
and not lie, it shall surely come, it shall not
tarry.’ It was early morning I know then, it
was so quiet and cool, and my mother \A’as fast
asleep in the chair by my bedside ; but it AA-asn't
only a dream of mine. I knoAV it Avasn't a
dream. Then I fell into a deep sleep, and only
Avoke after afternoon chapel; and the Doctor
came and gave me the Sacrament, as I told
you. I told him and my mother I should get
well — I kneAV I should ; but I couldn’t tell them
Avhy. Tom,” said Arthur, gently, after another
minute, “do you see Avhy I could not gricA'c
now to see my dearest friend die ? It can’t be —
it isn’t all fever or illness. God would never
have let me see it so clear if it Avasn’t true. I
don’t understand it all yet — it will take me my
life and longer to do that — to find out what the
Avork is.”

When Arthur stopped, there Avas a long
pause. Tom could not speak ; he was almost
afraid to breathe, lest he should break the train
of Arthur’s thoughts. He longed to hear more,

116

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

and to ask questions. In another minute nine
o’clock struck, and a gentle tap at the door call-
ed them both back into the world again. Tliey
did not answer, however, for a moment, and so
the door opened and a lady came in, carrying a
candle.

She went straight to the sofa, and took hold
of Arthur’s hand, and then stooped down and
kissed him.

said, and held out her hand to Tom, who was
now standing up behind the sofa. This was
Arthur’s mother : tall and slight and fair, with
masses of golden hair drawn back from the
broad white forehead, and the calm blue eye
meeting his so deep and open — the eye that he
knew so well, for it was his friend’s over again,
and the lovely tender mouth that trembled while
he looked. She stood there a woman of thirty-

TOAI AM) ARTHUR’S MOTHER.

“My dearest boy, you feel a little feverish
again. Why didn’t you have lights ? You’ve
talked too much, and excited yourself in the
dark.”

“ Oh no, mother, you ean’t think how well I
feel. I shall start with you to-morrow for Dev-
onshire. But, mother, here’s my friend, here’s
Tom Brown — you know him ?”

“ Yes, indeed, I’ve known him for years,” she

eight, old enough to be his mother, and one
whose face showed the lines which must be
written on the faces of good men’s wives and
widows — but he thought he had never seen any
thing so beautiful. He couldn’t help wonder-
ing if Arthur’s sisters were like her.

Tom held her hand, and looked on straight
in her face; he could neither let it go nor
speak.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

117

“Now, Tom,” said Arthur, laughing, “where
are your manners ? You’ll stare my mother out
of countenance.” Tom dropped the little hand
with a sigh. “ There, sit down, both of you.
Here, dearest mother, there’s room here and
he made a place on the sofa for her. “ Tom,
you needn’t go; I’m sure you won’t be called
lip at first lesson.” Tom felt that he would
risk being floored at every lesson for the rest of
his natural school-life sooner than go ; so sat
down. “And now,” said Arthur, “I have
realized one of the dearest wishes of my life —
to see you two together.”

And then he led away the talk to their home
in Devonshire, and the red bright earth, and the
deep green combes, and the peat streams like
cairngorm pebbles, and the wild moor v/ith its
high cloudy Tors for a giant background to the
picture — till Tom got jealous, and stood up for
the clear chalk streams, and the emerald water
meadows and great elms and willows of the dear
old Royal county, as he gloried to call it. And
the mother sat on quiet and loving, rejoicing in
their life. The quarter-to-ten struck, and the
bell rang for bed, before they had well begun
their talk, as it seemed.

Then Tom rose with a sigh to go.

“Shall I see you in the morning, Geordie?”
said he, as he shook his friend's hand. “ Nev-
er mind, though ; you’ll be back next half, and
I shan’t forget the house of Rimmon.”

Arthur’s mother got up and walked with him
to the door, and there gave him her hand again,
and again his eyes met that deep loving look,
which was like a spell upon him. Her voice
trembled slightly as she said, “Good-night —
you are one who knows what our Father has
promised to the friend of the widow and the
fatherless. May He deal with you as you have
dealt with me and mine !”

Tom was quite upset; he mumbled some-
thing about owing every thing good in him to
Geordie — looked in her face again, pressed her
hand to his lips, and rushed down stairs to his
study, where he sat till old Thomas came kick-
ing at the door, to tell him his allowance would
be stopped if he didn’t go off" to bed. (It would
have been stopped anyhow, but that he was a
great favorite with the old gentleman, who loved
to come out in the afternoons into the close to
Tom’s wicket, and bowl slow twisters to him,
and talk of the glories of bygone Surrey heroes,
with whom he had played former generations.)
So Tom roused himself, and took up his candle
to go to bed ; and then for the first time was
aware of a beautiful new fishing-rod, with old
Eton’s mark on it, and a splendidly bound Bi-
ble, which lay on his table, on the title-page of
which was written — “Tom Brown, from his
affectionate and grateful friends, Frances Jane
Arthur ; George Arthur.”

I leave you all to guess how he slept, and
what he dreamt of.

CH AFTER VII.

HARRY east’s DILEMMAS AND DELIVERANCES.

“The Holy Supper is kept im’.eed,

In whatso we share with another's need —

Not that wliicli we give, but what we share,

For tlie gift without the givtr is bare:

Wlio bestows himself with hi-> alms feeds three,
Himself, his hungering ueighl)or, and Me." •
Lowell, The Vmu7i oj Sir Laun/al^ p. H.

The next morning, after breakfast, Tom,
East, and Gower met as nsutd to learn their
second lesson together. Tom had been con
sidering how to break his proposal of giving u]i
the crib to the others, and having found no bet-
ter way (as indeed none better can ever be found
by man or boy), told them simply what had liap-
pened ; how he had been to see Arthur, who had
talked to him upon the subject, and what he had
said, and for his part he had made up his mind,
and wasn’t going to use cribs any more : and
not being quite sure of his ground, took the
high and pathetic tone, and was proceeding to
say, “how that, having learnt his lessons with
them for so many years, it would grieve him
much to put an end to the arrangement, and he
hoped at any rate that if they wouldn’t go on
with him, they should still be just as good
friends, and respect one another’s motives —
but — ”

Here the other boys, who had been listening
with open eyes and ears, burst in —

“ Stuff and nonsense!” cried Gower. “Here,
East, get down the crib and find the place.”

“ Oh, Tommy, Tommy !” said East, proceed-
ing to do as he was bidden, “ that it should
ever have come to this. I knew Arthur'd be
the ruin of you some day, and you of me. And
now the time’s come ” — and he made a doleful
face.

“ I don’t know about ruin,” answered Tom ;
“I know that you and I would have had the
sack long ago, if it hadn’t been for him. And
you know it as well as I.”

“Well, we were in a baddish way before he
came, I own ; but this new crotchet of his is
past a joke.”

“Let’s give it atrial, Harry; come — you
know how often he has been right and we
wrong.”

“Now, don’t you two be jawing away about
young Square-toes,” struck in Gower. “He’s
no end of a sucking wiseacre, I dare say, but
we’ve no time to lose, and I’ve got the fives’-
court at half-past nine.”

“I say, Gower,” said Tom, appealingly, “be
a good fellow, and let’s try if we can’t get on
without the crib.”

“What! in this chorus? Why, we shan’t
get through ten lines.”

“I say, Tom,” cried East, having hit on a
new idea, “don’t you remember, when we were
in the upper fourth, and old Momus caught me
construing off the leaf of a crib which I’d torn
out and put in my book, and which would float
out on to the floor ; he sent me up to be flogged
for it?”

“ Yes, T remember it very well.”

118

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

“ Well, the Doctor, after he’d flogged me, j
told me himself that he didn’t flog me for using
f.i translation, but for taking it into lesson, and
using it there when I hadn’t learnt a word be-
fore I came in. He said there was no harm in
using a translation to get a clue to hard pas-
sages, if you tried all you could first to make
them out w'ithout.”

“Did he, though ?” said Tom, “ then Arthur
must be wrong.”

“Of course he is,” said Gower, “the little
prig! We’ll only use the crib when we can’t
construe without it. Go ahead, East.”

And on this agreement they started : Tom
satisfied with having made his confession, and
not sorry to have a locus jxEnitentice, and not to
be deprived altogether of the use of his old and
faithful friend.

The boys went on as usual, each taking a
sentence in turn, and the crib being handed to
the one whose turn it was to construe. Of
course Tom couldn’t object to this, as was it
not simply lying there to be appealed to in case
the sentence should prove too hard altogether
for the construer? But it must be owned that
Gow'er and East did not make very tremendous
exertions to conquer their sentences before hav-
ing i-ecourse to its help. Tom, how'ever, with
the most heroic virtue and gallantry rushed into
his sentence, searching in a high-minded man-
ner for nominative and verb, and turning over
his dictionary frantically for the first hard w'ord
that stopped him. But in the mean time Gow-
er, who was bent on getting to fives, would peep
quietly into the crib, and then suggest, “Don’t
you think this is the meaning?” “I think you
must take it this way, Brown;” and as Tom
didn’t see his way to not profiting by these sug-
gestions, the lesson went on about as quickly as
usual, and Gower was able to start for the fives’-
court within five minutes of the half-hour.

When Tom and East were left face to face,
they looked at one another for a minute, Tom
puzzled, and East chock-full of fun, and then
burst into a roar of laughter.

“Well, Tom,” said East, recovering himself,
“ I don’t see any objection to the new way. It’s
about as good as the old one, I think; besides
the advantage it gives one of feeling virtuous,
and looking down on one’s neighbors.”

Tom shoved his hand into his back hair. “I
ain’t so sure,” said he ; “you two fellows carried
me off my legs ; I don’t think we really tried
one sentence fairly. Are you sure you remem-
ber what the Doctor said to you ?”

“Yes. And I’ll swear I couldn’t make out
one of my sentences to-day. No, nor ever
could. I really don’t remember,” said East,
speaking slowly and impressively, “to have
come across one Latin or Greek sentence this
half, that I n uld go and construe by the light
of nature. Whereby I am sure Providence in-
tended cribs to be used.”

“The thing to find out, ’’said Tom medita-
tively, “ is how long one ought to grind at a
sentence without looking at the crib. Now I

think if one fairly looks out all the words one
don’t know, and then can’t hit it, that’s enough.”

“To be sure. Tommy,” said East demurely,
but with a merry twinkle in his eye. “Your
new doctrine, too, old fellow,” added he, “when
one comes to think of it, is a cutting at the root
of all school morality. You’ll take away mutual
help, brotherly love, or, in the vulgar tongue,
giving construes, which I hold to be one of our
highest virtues. For how can you distinguish
between getting a construe from another boy,
and using a crib ? Hang it, Tom, if you’re going
to deprive all our schoolfellows of the chance
of exercising Christian benevolence and being
good Samaritans, I shall cut the concern.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about it, Harry;
it’s hard enough to see one’s way, a precious
sight harder than I thought last night. But I
suppose there’s a use and an abuse of both, and
one’ll get straight enough somehow'. But you
can’t make out anyhow that one has a right to
use old vulgus-books and copy-books.”

“ Hullo, more heresy ! how fast a fellow goes
down hill when he once gets his head before his
legs ! Listen to me, Tom. Not use old vulgus-
books ? — why, you Goth ! ain’t we to take the
benefit of the wisdom, and admire and use the
work of past generations ? Not use old copy-
books! Why, you might as well say w'e ought
to pull down Westminster Abbey, and put up a
go-to-meeting-shop with churchwarden windows ;
or never read Shakspeare, but only Sheridan
Knowles. Think of all the work and labor that
our predecessors have bestow'ed on these very
books, and are we to make their work of no
value ?”

“I say, Harry, please don’t chaff; I’m really
serious.”

“And then, is it not our duty to consult the
pleasure of others rather than our own, and,
above all, that of our masters ? Fancy then the
difference to them in looking over a vulgus
which has been carefully touched and retouched
by themselves and others, and which must bring
them a sort of dreamy pleasure, as if they’d met
the thought or expression of it somewhere or
another — before they were born, perhaps ; and
that of cutting up, and making picture-frames
round all your and my false quantities, and other
monstrosities. Why, Tom, you wouldn’t be so
cruel as never to let old Mom us hum over the
‘ O genus humanum ’ again, and then look up
doubtingly through his spectacles, and end by
smiling and giving three extra marks for it : just
for old sake’s sake, I suppose.”

“ Well,” said Tom, getting up in something
as like a huff as he was capable of, “it’s deuced
hard that when a fellow’s really trying to do
what he ought, his best friends ’ll do nothing
but chaff him and try to put him down.” And
he stuck his books under his arm, and his hat
on his head, preparatory to rushing out into the
quadrangle, to testify with his own soul of the
faithlessness of friendships.

“Now don’t be an ass, Tom,” said East, catch-
ing hold of him, “you know' me well enough by

TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS.

119

t\iis time ; my bark’s worse than my bite. You
can’t expect to ride your new crotchet without
any body’s trying to stick a nettle under his tail,
and make him kick you off : especially as we
shall all have to go on foot still. But now sit
down and let’s go over it again. I'll be as se-
rious as a judge.”

Then Tom sat himself down on the table, and
waxed eloquent about all the righteousnesses and
advantages of the new plan, as was his wont
whenever he took up any thing ; going into it as
if his life --depended upon it, and sparing no
abuse which he could think of, of the opposite
method, which he denounced as ungentleman-
ly, cowardly, mean, lying, and no one knows
what besides. “Very cool of Tom,” as East
thought, but didn’t say, “ seeing as how he only
came out of Egypt himself last night at bed-
time.”

“Well, Tom,” said he at last, “you see, when
you and I came to school there were none of
these sort of notions. You may be right — I dare
say you are. Only what one has always felt
about the masters is, that it’s a fair trial of skill
and last between us and them — like a match at
football, or a battle. We’re natural enemies in
school, that’s the fact. We’ve got to learn so
much Latin and Greek and do so many verses,
and they’ve got to see that we do it. If we can
slip the collar, and do so much less without get-
ting caught, that’s one to us. If they can get
moi'e out of us, or catch us shii-king, that’s one
to them. All’s fair in war, but lying. If I run
my luck against theirs, and go into school with-
out looking at my lessons, and don’t get called up,
why am I a snob or a sneak ? I don’t tell the
master I’ve learnt it. He’s got to find out
whether I have or not; what’s he paid for ? If
he calls me up, and I get floored, he makes me
write it out in Greek and English. Very good ;
he’s caught me, and I don’t grumble. I grant
you, if I go and snivel to him, and tell him I’ve
really tried to learn it, but found it so hard with-
out a translation, or say I’ve had a toothache or
any humbug of that kind. I’m a snob. That’s
my school morality ; it’s served me, and you too,
Tom, for the matter of that, these five years.
And it’s all clear and fair, no mistake about it.
We understand it, and they understand it, and
I don’t know what we’re to come to with any
other.”

Tom looked at him pleased, and a little puz-
zled. He had never heard East speak his mind
seriously before, and couldn’t help feeling how
completely he had hit his own theory and prac-
tice up to that time.

“ Thank you, old fello-vv',” said he. “ You’re
a good old brick, to be serious and not put out
with me. I said more than I meant, I dare
say, only you see I know I’m right : whatever
you and Gower and the rest do, I shall hold
on^ — I must. And as it’s all new and an uphill
game, you see, one must hit hard and hold on
tight at first.”

“Very good,” said East; “hold on and hit
away, only don’t hit under the line.”

“But I must bring you over, Harry, or I
shan’t be comfortable. Now, I’ll allow all you’ve
said. We’ve always been honorable enemies
with the masters. We found a state of war when
we came, and went into it of course. Only don’t
you think things arc altered a good deal? I
don’t feel as I used to the masters. They seem
to me to treat one quite differently.”

“Yes, perhaps they do,” said East; “ there's
a new set, you see, mostly, who don’t feel sure
of themselves yet. They don’t want to fight till
they know the ground.”

“I don’t think it’s only that,” said Tom.
“And then the Doctor, he does treat one so
openly, and like a gentleman, and as if one was
working with him.”

“Well, so he does,” said East ; “ he’s a splen-
did fellow, and when I get into the sixth I shall
act accordingly. Only you know he has noth-
ing to do with our lessons now, except examin-
ing us. I say, though,” looking at liis watch,
“ it’s just the quarter. Come along.”

As they walked out they got a message, to
say “that Arthur was just starting and would
like to say good-bye ;” so they went down to the
private entrance of the School-house, and found
an open carriage, with Arthur propped up with
pillows in it, looking already better, Tom
thought.

They jumped up on to the steps to shake hands
with him, and Tom mumbled thanks for the
presents he had found in his study, and looked
round anxiously for Arthur’s mother.

East, who had fallen back into his usual hu-
mor, looked quaintly at Arthur, and said —

“ So you’ve been at it again, through that
hot-headed convert of yours there. He’s been
making our lives a burden to us all the morning
about using cribs. I shall get floored to a cer-
tainty at second lesson, if I’m called up.”
Arthur blushed and looked down. Tom struck
in —

“ Oh, it’s all right. He’s converted already ;
he always comes through the mud after us,
grumbling and spluttering.”

The clock struck, and they had to go off to
school, wishing Arthur a pleasant holiday ; Tom
lingering behind a moment to send his thanks
and love to Arthur’s mother.

Tom renewed the discussion after second les-
son, and succeeded so far as to get East to
promise to give the new plan a fair trial.

Encouraged by his success, in the evening,
when they were sitting alone in the large study,
where East lived now almost, “vice Arthur on
leave,” after examining the new fishing-rod,
which both pronounced to be the genuine arti-
cle (“play enough to throw a midge tied on a
single hair against the wind, and strength enough
to hold a grampus ”), they naturally began talk-
ing about Arthur. Tom, who was still bubbling
over with last night’s scene and all the thoughts
of the last week, and wanting to clinch and fix
the whole in his own mind, which he could never
do without first going through the process of
belaboring somebody else with it all, suddenly

J20

TOM BROWN’S SCPIOOL DAYS.

rushed into the subject of Arthur’s illness, and
what he had said about death.

East had given him the desired opening ; after
a serio-comic grumble, “that life wasn’t worth
having now they were tied to a young beggar
who was always ‘ raising his standard ;’ and that
he, East, was like a prophet’s donkey, who was
obliged to struggle on after the donkey-man who
went after the prophet ; that he had none of the
pleasure of starting the new crotchets, and didn’t
half understand them, but had to take the kicks
and carry the luggage as if he had all the fun ” —
he threw his legs up on to the sofa, and put his
hands behind his head, and said —

“Well, after all, he’s the most wonderful
little fellow I ever came across. There ain’t
such a meek, humble boy in the school. Hanged
if I don’t think now really, Tom, that he believes
himself a much worse fellow than you or I, and
that he don’t think he has more influence in the
house than Dot Bowles, who came last quarter,
and isn’t ten yet. But he turns you and me
round his little finger, old boy — there’s no mis-
take about that.” And East nodded at Tom
sagaciously.

“Now or never !” thought Tom ; so shutting
his eyes and hardening his heart, he went
straight at it, repeating all that Arthur had said,
as near as he could remember it, in the very
words, and all he had himself thought. The
life seemed to ooze out of it as he went on, and
several times he felt inclined to stop, ’give it all
up, and change the subject. But somehow he
was borne on, he had a necessity upon him to
speak it all out, and did so. At the end he
looked at East with some anxiety, and was de-
lighted to see that that young gentleman was
thoughtful and attentive. The fact is, that in
tlie stage of his inner life at which Tom had
lately arrived, his intimacy with and friendship
for East could not have lasted if he had not made
him aware of, and a sharer in, the thoughts that
were beginning to exercise him. Nor indeed
could the friendship have lasted if East had
showm no sympathy with these thoughts ; so that
it was a great relief to have unbosomed himself,
and to have found that his friend could listen.

Tom had always had a sort of instinct that
East’s levity was only skin-deep ; and this in-
stinct was a true one. East had no want of
reverence for any thing he felt to be real, but
his was one of those natures that burst into
what is generally called recklessness and impi-
ety the moment they feel that any thing is be-
ing poured upon them for their good, which
does not come home to their inborn sense of
right, or which appeals to any thing like self-
interest in them. Daring and honest by nature,
and outspoken to an extent which alarmed all
respectabilities, with a constant fund of animal
health and spirits which he did not feel bound
to curb in any way, he had gained for himself
with the steady part of the School (including as
well those who wished to appear steady as those
who really were so) the character of a boy with
wliom it would be dangerous to be intimate:

while his own hatred of every thing cruel, or
underhand, or false, and his hearty respect for
what he could see to be good and true, kept off
the rest.

Tom, besides being very like East in many
points of character, had largely developed in his
composition the capacity for taking the weakest
side. This is not putting it strongly enough;
it was a necessity with him, he couldn’t help it
any more than he could eating or drinking.
He could never play on the strongest side with
any heart at football or cricket, and was sure
to make friends with any boy who was unpopu-
lar, or down on his luck.

Now though East was not what is generally
called unpopular, Tom felt more and more ev-
ery day, as their characters developed, that he
stood alone, and did not make friends among
their contemporaries ; and therefore sought him
out. Tom was himself much more popular, for
his power of detecting humbug was much less
acute, and his instincts were much more socia-
ble. He was at this period of his life, too,
largely given to taking people for what they
gave themselves out to be ; but his singleness
of heart, fearlessness, and honesty were just
what East appreciated, and thus the two had
been drawn into great intimacy.

This intimacy had been interrupted by Tom’s
guardianship of Arthur.

East had often, as has been said, joined them
in reading the Bible ; but their discussions had
almost always turned upon the characters of the
men and women of whom they read, and not
become personal to themselves. In fact, the
two had shrunk from personal religious discus-
sion, not knowing hjw it might end ; and fear-
ful of risking a friendship very dear to both, and
which they felt somehow, without quite know-
ing why, would never be the same, but either
tenfold stronger or sapped at its foundation,
after such a communing together.

What a bother all this explaining is ! I wish
we could get on without it. But we can’t.
However, you’ll all find, if you haven’t found it
out already, that a time comes in every human
friendship, when you must go down into the
depths of yourself, and lay bare wdiat is there to
your friend, and wait in fear for his answer. A
few moments may do it ; and it may be (most
likely will be, as you are English boys) that you
will never do it but once. But done it must be,
if the friendship is to be w'orth the name. You
must find what is there, at the very root and
bottom of one another’s hearts; and if you are
at one there, nothing on earth can, or at least
ought, to sunder }mu.

East had remained lying down until Tom fin-
ished speaking, as if fearing to interrupt him ; he
now sat up at the table, and leant his head on
one hand, taking up a pencil with the other,
and working little holes with it in the table-
cover. After a bit he looked up, stopped the
pencil, and said, “Thank you very much,
old fellow ; there’s no other boy in the house
would have done it for me but you or Arthur.

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

121

I can secvvell enough,” he went on after a pause,
“all the best big fellows look on me with sus-
picion ; they think I’m a devil-may-care, reck-
less young scamp. So I am — eleven hours out
of twelve — but not the twelfth. Then all of
our contemporaries worth knowing follow suit,
of course ; we’re very good friends at games and
all tliat, but not a soul of them but you and Ar-
thur ever tried to break through the crust, and
see whether there was any thing at the bottom
of me ; and then the bad ones I won’t stand,
and they know that.”

“ Don’t you think that’s lialf fancy, Harry ?”
“ Not a bit of it,” said East bitterly, pegging
away with his pencil. “ I see it all plain enough.
Bless you, you think every body’s as straightfor-
ward and kind-hearted as you are.”

“ Well, but what’s the reason of it ? There
must be a reason. You can play all the games
as well as any one, and sing the best song, and
are the best company in the house. You fancy
you’re not liked, Harry. It’s all fancy.”

“ I only wish it was, Tom. I know I could
bo popular enough with all the bad ones, but
that I won’t have, and the good ones won’t
have me.’’

“Why not?” persisted Tom; “you don’t
drink or swear, or get out at night ; you never
bully, or cheat at lessons. If you only showed
you liked it, you’d have all the best fellows in
the house running after you.”

“ Not I, ” said East. Then with an effort he
went on, “ I’ll tell you what it is. I never stop
the Sacrament. I can see, from the Doctor
downward, how that tells against me.”

“Yes, I’ve seen that,” said Tom, “ and I’ve
been very sorry for it, and Arthur and I have
talked about it, I’ve often thought of speaking
to you, but it’s so hard to begin on such sub-
jects. I’m very glad you’ve opened it. Now,
why don’t you ?”

“ I’ve never been confirmed,” said East.
“Not been confirmed!” said Tom in aston-
ishment. “I never thought of that. Why
weren’t you confirmed with the rest of us near-
ly three years ago? I always thought you’d
been confirmed at home.”

“ No,” answered East sorrowfully ; “ you see
this was how it happened. Last Confirmation
was soon after Arthur came, and you were so
taken up with him, I hardly saw either of you.
Well, when the Doctor sent round for us about
it, I was living mostly Avith Green’s set — you
know the sort. They all Avent in — I dai’e say
it Avas all right, and they got good by it ; I don’t
want to judge them. Only all I could see of
their reasons drove me just the other way.
’Tavus ‘ because the Doctor liked it ‘ no boy got
on who didn’t stay the Sacrament ;’ it Avas ‘ the
correct thing,’ in fact, like having a good hat to
wear on Sundays. I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t
feel that I wanted to lead a diffei'ent life, I was
very well content as I Avas, and I wasn’t going to
sham religious to curry favor with the Doctor,
or any one else.”

East stopping speaking, and pegged aAvay

more diligently than ever Avith his pencil. Tom
Avas ready to cry. He felt half sorry at first
that he had been confirmed himself. He seem-
ed to have deserted his earliest friend, to haA'e
left him by himself at his Avorst need for those
long years. He got up and Avent and sat by
East, and put his arm over his shoulder.

“ Dear old boy,” he said, “hoAV careless and
selfish I’ve been ! But Avhy didn’t you come and
talk to Arthur and me ?’’

“ I Avish to heaA'en I had,” said East, “ but I
was a fool. It’s too late talking of it now.”

“ Why too late ? You Avant to be confirmed
now, don’t you ?”

“I think so,” said East. “ I’a'c thought
about it a good deal : only often I fancy I must
be changing, because I see it’s to do me good
here— just what stopped me last time. And
then I go back again.”

“ I’ll tell you now hoAV ’twas Avith me,” said
Tom Avarmly. “ If it hadn’t been for Arthur,
I should have done just as you did. I hope I
should. I honor you for it. But then he
made it out just as if it was taking the Avcak
side before all the Avorld — going in once for all
against every thing that’s strong and rich and
proud and respectable, a little band of brothers
against the whole world. And the Doctor seem-
ed to say so too, only he said a great deal more.”

“Ah!” groaned East, “but there again,
that’s just another of my difficulties Avhenever I
think about the matter. I don’t AA’ant to be one
of your saints, one of your elect, Avhatever the
right phrase is. My sympathies are all the oth-
er Avay ; Avith the many, the poor devils Avho run
about the streets and don’t go to church. Don’t
stare, Tom ; mind, I’m telling you all that’s in
my heart — as far as I know it — but it’s all a mud-
dle. You must be gentle Avith me if you Avant
to land me. Now I’a'c seen a deal of this sort
of religion : I Avas bred up in it, and I can’t
stand it. If nineteen-tAventieths of the Avorld
are to be left to uncovenanted mercies, and that
sort of thing, Avhich means in plain English to
go to hell, and the other tAventieth are to rejoice
at it all, Avhy — ”

“Oh! but, Harry, they ain’t, they don’t,”
broke in Tom, really shocked. “ Oh, hoAV I
wish Arthur hadn’t gone! I’m such a fool
about these things. But it’s all you AA^ant, too.
East ; it is indeed. It'cuts both Avays somehoAv —
being confirmed and taking the Sacrament. It
makes you feel on the side of all the good and
all the bad too, of eA^ery body in the Avorld.
Only there’s some great dark strong power,
which is crushing you and every body else.
That’s Avhat Christ conquered, and Ave’A^e got to
fight. What a fool I am ! I can’t explain.
If Arthur Avere only here!”

“I begin to get a glimmering of Avhat you
mean,” said East.

“I say noAV,” said Tom eagerly, “ do you re-
member how Ave both hated Flashman ?”

“Of course I do,” said East; “I hate him
still. What then?”

“Well, Avhen I came to take the Sacrament,

122

TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS.

EAST UEBTJEDENING HIMSELF TO TOM.

I had a great struggle about that. I tided to
put him out of my head ; and when I couldn’t
do that, I tried to think of him as evil, as some-
thing that the Lord who was loving me hated,
and which I might hate too. But it w'ouldn’t
do. I broke down : I believe Christ himself
broke me down ; and wlien the Doctor gave me
the bread and wine, and leaned over me pray-
ing, I prayed for poor Flashman, as if it had
been you or Arthur.”

East buried his face in his hands on the ta-
ble. Tom could feel the table tremble. At
last he looked up, “Thank you again, Tom,”
said he ; “you don’t know what you may have
done for me to-night. I think I see now how
the right sort of sympathy with poor devils is
got at.”

“And you’ll stop the Sacrament next time,
won't you ?” said Tom.

“Can I, before I’m confirmed?”

“ Go and ask the Doctor.”

“I will.”

That very night, after praj^ers. East followed
tlio Doctor and the old Verger bearing the can-
dle, up stairs. Tom watched, and saw the
Doctor turn round when he heard footsteps fol-
lowing him closer than usual, and say, “Hah,
East ! Do you want to speak to me, my man ?”

“ If you please, sir and the private door
closed, and Tom went to his study in a state of
great trouble of mind.

It was almost an hour before East came back;
then he rushed in breathless.

“ Well, it’s all right,” he shouted, seizing Tom
by the hand. “I feel as if a ton weight were
off my mind.”

“Hurrah!” said Tom. “I knew' it would be,
but tell us all about it.”

“Well, I just told him all about it. You
can’t think how kind and gentle he was — the
great grim man, whom I’ve feared more than
any body on earth. When I stuck, he lifted
me, just as if I had been a little child. And
he seemed to know all I’d felt, and to have
gone through it all. And I burst out crying —
more than I have done this five years, and he
sat down by me, and stroked my head ; and I
went blundering on, and told him all ; much
worse things than I’ve told you. And he
wasn’t shocked a bit, and didn’t snub me, or
tell me I was a fool, and it was all nothing but
pride or wickedness, though I dare say it was.
And he didn’t tell me not to follow out my
thoughts, and he didn’t give me any cut-and-
dried explanation. But when I’d done he just
talked a bit — I can hardly r'‘meml)er what he

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

123

said, yet ; but it seemed to spread round me
like healing, and strength, and light'; and to
bear me up, and plant me on a rock, where I
could hold my footing, and light for myself. I
don't know what to do, I feel so happy. And
it’s all owing to you, dear old boy ! ” and he
seized Tom’s hand again.

“And you’re to come to the Communion?”
said Tom.

“Yes, and to be confirmed in the holidays.”

Tom’s delight was as great as his friend’s.
But he hadn’t yet had out all his own talk, and
was bent on improving the occasion : so he pro-
ceeded to propound Artliur’s theory about not
being sorry for his friends’ deaths, which he had
hitherto kept in the background, and by which
he was much exercised : for he didn’t feel it
honest to take what pleased him and throw over
the rest, and was trying vigorously to persuade
himself that he should like all his best friends
to die ofF-hand.

But East’s powers of remaining serious were
exhausted, and in five minutes he v/as saying
the most ridiculous things he could think of,
till Tom was almost getting angry again.

Despite of himself, however, he couldn’t help
laughing and giving it up, when East appealed
to him with “Well, Tom, you ain’t going to
punch my head, I hope, because I insist upon
being sorry when you got to earth?’’

And so their talk finished for that time, and
they tried to learn first lesson ; with very poor
success, as appeared next morning, when they
were called up and narrowly escaped being floor-
ed, which ill-luck, however, did not sit heavily
on either of their souls.

CHAPTER Vni.

TOM BEOWn’s last MATCH.

“ ileaven grant the manlier heart, that timely, ere

Youth fly, with life’s real tempest would be coping;
The fruit of dreamy hoping
Is, waking, blank despair.”

Clough, Amlarvalia.

The curtain now rises upon the last act of
.•)ur little drama — for hard-hearted publishers
warn me that a single, volume must of necessity
have an end. Well, well ! the pleasantest things
must come to an end. I little thought last long
vacation, when I began these pages to help while
away some spare time at a watering-place, how
vividly many an old scene, which had lain hid
away for years in some dusty old corner of my
brain, would come back again, and stand before
me as clear and bright as if it had happened yes-
terday. The book has been a most grateful
task to me, and I only hope that all you, my
dear young friends who read it (friends assured-
ly you must be, if you get as far as this), will be
half as sorry to come to the last stage as I am.

Not but what there has been a solemn and a
sad side to it. As the old scenes became liv-
ing, and the actors in them became living too.

many a grave in the Crimea and distant India,
as well as in the quiet church-yards of our dear
old country, seemed to open and send forth
their dead, and their voices and looks and ways
were again in one’s ears and eyes, as in the old
School-days. But this was not sad ; how should
it be, if we believe as our Lord has taught us ?
How should it be, when one more turn of the
wheel, and we shall be by their sides again,
learning from them again, perhaps, as we did
when we were new boys ?

Then there were others of the old faces so
dear to us once, who had somehow or another
just gone clean out of sight — are they dead or
living ? We know not, but the thouglit of them
brings no sadness with it. Wherever tliey are,
we can well believe they are doing God’s work
and getting His wages.

But are there not some, whom we still see
sometimes in the streets, whose haunts and
homes we know, whom we could probably find
almost any day in the week if we were set to
do it, yet from whom we are really farther than
we are from the dead, and from those w'ho have
gone out of our ken ? Yes, there are and must
be such ; and therein lies the sadness of old
school memories. Yet of these our old com-
rades, from w'hom more than time and space
separate us, there are some by whose sides we
can feel sure that we shall stand again when
time shall be no more. We may think of one
another now as dangerous fanatics or narrow
bigots, with whom no truce is possible, from
■whom we shall only sever more and more to the
end of our lives, whom it would be our respect-
ive duties to imprison or hang, if we had the
power. We must go our way, and they theirs,
as long as flesh and spirit hold together; but let
our own Rugby poet speak words of healing for
this trial : —

“To veer liow vain! on, onward strain,

Brave barks ! in light, in darkness too ;

Through winds and tides one compass guides —

To that, and your own selves, be true.

“ But, O blithe breeze ! and O great seas I
Though ne’er that earliest parting past,

On your wide plain they join again.

Together lead them home at last.

“One port, methought, alike they sought,

One purpose hold where’er they fare.

O bounding breeze! O rushing seas !

At last, at last, unite tliem there !”*

This is not mere longing, it is prophecy. So
over these two, our old friends who are friends
no more, we sorrow not as men without hope.
It is only for those who seem to us to have lost
compass and purpose, and to be driven helpless-
ly on rocks and quicksands ; whose lives are
spent in the service of the world, the flesh, and
the devil; for self alone, and not for their fel-
low-men, their country, or their God, that we
must mourn and pray without sure hope and
without light; trusting only that He, in whose
hands they as well as we are, who has died for

* tjLOUGii, Aynbarralia.

124

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

them as well as for us, who sees all His crea- '
tures

“ With larger, other eyes than ours,

To make allowance for us all,"

will, in His own way and at His own time, lead
them also home.

* * 5l« * * :i!

Another tw'o years have passed, and it is
again the end of the summer half-year at Rug-
by ; in fact, the school has broken up. The
fifth-form examinations were over last week,
and upon them have followed the Speeches, and
the sixth-form examinations for exhibitions;
and they, too, are over now. The boys have
gone to all the winds of heaven, except the town
boys and the eleven, and the few enthusiasts
besides who have asked leave to stay in their
houses to see the result of the cricket matches.
For this year the Wellesburn return match and
the Marylebone match are played at Rugby, to
the great delight of the town and neighborhood,
and the sorrow of those aspiring young cricket-
ers who have been reckoning for the last three
months on showing off at Lords’s ground.

The Doctor started for the Lakes yesterday
morning, after an interview with the Captain of
the eleven, in the presence of Thomas, at which
he arranged in what School the cricket dinners
were to be, and all other matters necessary for
the satisfactory carrying out of the festivities ;
and warned them as to keeping all spirituous
liquors out of the close, and having the gates
closed by nine o’clock.

The Wellesburn match was played out with
great success yesterday, the School winning by
three wickets; and to-day the great event of
the cricketing year, the Marylebone match, is
being played. What a match it has been I The
London eleven came down by an afternoon train
yesterday, in time to see the end of the Welles-
burn match ; and as soon as it was over, their
leading men and umpire inspected the ground,
criticising it rather unmercifully. The Captain
of the School eleven, and one or two others,
wlio had played the Lords's match before, and
knew old Mr. Aislabie and several of the Lords’s |
men, accompanied them : while the rest of the
eleven looked on from under the Three Trees
with admiring eyes, and asked one another the
names of the illustrious strangers, and recount-
ed how many runs each of them liad made in
the late matches in Bell's Life. They looked
such hard-bitten, wiry, whiskered fellows, that
their young adversaries felt rather desponding
as to the result of the morrow’s match. The
ground was at last chosen, and two men set to
work upon it to water and roll ; and then, there
being yet some half-hour of daylight, some one
had suggested a dance on the turf. The close
was half full of citizens and their families, and
the idea was hailed with enthusiasm. The
cornopean-player was still on the ground ; in
five minutes the eleven and half a dozen of the
Wellesburn and Marylebone men got partners
somehow or another, and a merry country-dance
was going on, to which every one flocked, and

new couples joined in every minute, till there
were a hundred of them going down the middle
and up again — and the long line of School-build-
ings looked gravely down on them, every win-
dow glowing with the last rays of the western
sun, and the rooks clanged about in the tops of
the old elms, greatly excited, and resolved on
having their country-dance too, and the great '
flag flapped lazily in the gentle western breeze.
Altogether it was a sight which would have
made glad the heart of our brave old founder,
Lawrence Sheriff, if he were half as good a fel-
low as I take him to have been. It was a cheer-
ful sight to see ; but what made it so valuable
in the sight of the Captain of the School eleven
Avas, that he there saw his young hands shaking
off their shyness and awe of the Lords’s men, as
they crossed hands and capered about on the
grass together ; for the strangers entered into it
all, and threw away their cigars, and danced and
shouted like boys ; while old Mr. Aislabie stood
by looking on in his white hat, leaning on a bat,
in benevolent enjoyment. “ This hop wull be
worth thirty runs to us to-morrow, and will be
the making of Eaggles and Johnson,” thinks
the young leader, as he revolves many things in
his mind, standing by the side of Mr. Aislabie,
whom he will not leave for a minute, for he
feels that the character of the School for courte-
sy is resting on his shoulders.

But when a quarter to nine struck, and he
saw old Thomas beginning to fidget about Avith
the keys in his hand, he thought of the Doctor’s
parting monition, and stopped the cornopean at
once, notwithstanding the loud-voiced remon-
strances from all sides ; and the croAvd scattered
away from the close, the eleven all going into
the School-house, Avhere supper and beds Averc
provided for them by the Doctor’s orders.

Deep had been the consultations at supper as
to the order of going in, who should bowl the
first oA'er, Avhether it Avould be best to play
steady or freely; and the youngest hands de-
clared that they shouldn’t be a bit neiwous, and
praised their opponents as the jolliest felloAVs in
, the Avorld, except perhaps their old friends the
Wellesburn men. Hoav far a little good-nature
I from their elders will go Avith the right sort of
boys !

The morning had daAvped bright and Avarm,
to the intense relief of many an anxious young-
ster, up betimes to mark the signs of the Aveather.
The eleven AA^ent doAvn in a body before break-
fast, for a plunge in the cold bath in the corner
of the close. The ground Avas in splendid or-
der, and soon after ten o’clock, before spectators
had arrived, all was ready, and tAvo of the Lords’s
men took their places at the Avicket ; the School,
Avith the usual liberality of young hands, haA'-
ing put their adversaries in first. Old Bailey
stepped up to the Avicket, and called play, and
the match has begun.

:)« * ;l£ * *

“Oh, Avell boAvled ! AA^ell boAAded, Johnson!”
cries the captain, catching up the ball and send-
ing it high above the rook-trees, Avhile the third

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

125

Marylebone man walks away from the wicket,
and old Bailey gravely sets up the middle stump
again and puts the bails on.

“How many runs?” Away scamper three
boys to the scoring-table, and are back again
in a minute amongst the rest of the eleven,
who are collected together in a knot between
wicket. “ Only eighteen runs, and three wick-
ets down!” “ Huzzah for old Rugby!” sings
out Jack Ragglcs the long-stop, toughest and
burliest of boys, commonly called “ Swiper
Jack ^and forthwith stands on his head, and
brandishes his legs in the air in triumph, till
the next boy catches hold of his heels and
throws him over on to his back.

“Steady there, don’t be such an ass. Jack,”
says the Captain; “we haven’t got the best
wicket yet. Ah, look out now at cover-point,”
adds he, as he sees a long-armed, bare-headed,
slashing-looking player coming to the wicket.
“And, Jack, mind your hits; he steals more
runs than any man in England.”

And they all find that they have got their
work to do now ; the new-comer’s ofi-hitting is
tremendous, and his running like a flash of
lightning. He is never in his ground, except
when his wicket is down. Nothing in the whole
game so trying to boys ; he has stolen three
byes in the first ten minutes, and Jack Haggles
is furious, and begins throwing over savagely to
the further wicket, until he is sternly stopped by
the Captain. It is all that young gentleman
can do to keep his team steady, but he knows
that every thing depends on it, and faces his
work bravely. The score creeps up to fifty, the
boys begin to look blank, and the spectators,
who are now mustering strong, are very silent.
The ball flies off his bat to all parts of the field,
and he gives no rest and no catches to any one.
But cricket is full of glorious chances, and the
goddess who presides over it loves to bring down
the most skillful players. Johnson the young
bowler is getting wild, and bowls a ball almost
wide to the off ; the batter steps out and cuts it
beautifully to where cover-point is standing very
deep, in fact almost off the ground. The ball
comes skimming and twisting along about three
feet from the ground ; he rushes at it, and it
sticks somehow or other in the fingers of his left
hand, to the utter astonishment of himself and
the whole field.

Such a catch hasn’t been made in the close for
years, and the cheering is maddening. “Pretty
cricket,” says the Captain, throwing himself on
the ground by the deserted wicket with a long
breath ; he feels that a crisis has passed.

I wish I had space to describe the match ;
how the Captain stumped the next man off a
leg-shooter, and bowled small cobs to old Mr.
Aislabie, who came in for the last wicket. How
the Lords’s men Avere out by half-past twelve
o’clock for ninety-eight runs. How the Cap-
tain of the School eleven went in first to give
his men pluck, and scored twenty-five in beau-
tiful style ; how Rugby was only four behind in
the first innings. What a glorious dinner they

had in the fourth-form School, and how the
cover-point hitter sang the most topping comic
songs, and old Mr. Aislabie made the best
speeches thatcA'er were heard, afterwards. But
I haven’t space, that’s the fact, and so you must
fancy it all, and carry yourselves on to half-past
seven o’clock, when the School are again in, Avith
five Avickets down and only thirty-two runs to
make to win. The Marylebone men j)layed
carelessly in their second innings, but they are
working like horses now to saA'c the match.

There is much healthy, hearty, happy life
scattered up and down the close ; but the group
to which I beg to call your especial attention is
there, on the slope of the island, Avhich looks
towards the cricket-ground. It consists of three
figures; two are seated on the bench, and one
on the ground at their feet. The first, a tall,
slight, and rather gaunt man, Avith a bushy eye-
broAv, and a dry humorous smile, is evidently a
clergyman. He is carelessly dressed, and looks
rather used up, Avhich isn’t much to be Avondered
at, seeing that he has just finished six Avecks of
examination Avork ; but there he basks, and
spreads himself out in the evening sun, bent
on enjoying life, though he doesn’t quite knoAV
Avhat to do Avith his arms and legs. Surely it
is our friend the young Master, Avhom Ave
have had glimpses of before, but his face has
gained a gi'eat deal since Ave last came across
him.

And by his side, in white flannel shirt and
troAvsers, straAV hat, the Captain’s belt, and the
untanned yellow cricket-shoes Avhich all the elev-
en wear, sits a strapping figure, near six feet
high, with ruddy tanned face and Avhiskers,
curly broAvn hair, and a laughing dancing eye.
He is leaning forAvard Avith his elboAvs resting
on his knees, and dandling his faA'orite bat, Avith
Avhich he has made thirty or forty runs to-day,
in his strong broAvn hands. It is Tom BroAvn,
groAvn into a young man nineteen years old, a
praepostor and Captain of the eleven, spending
his last day as a Rugby boy, and let us hope as
much Aviser as he is bigger, since we last had the
pleasure of coming across him.

And at their feet on the Avarm dry ground,
similarly dressed, sits Arthur, Tuii ish fashion,
Avith his bat across his knees. He too is no
longer a boy, less of a boy in fact than Tom, if
one may judge from the thoughtfulness of his
face, Avhich is somcAvhat paler too than one
could Avish ; but his figure, though slight, is
Avell knit and active, and all his old timidity has
disappeared, and is replaced by silent quaint fun,
Avith Avhich his face twinkles all over, as he list-
ens to the broken talk betAveen the other tAvo,
in Avhich he joins CA-ery now and then.

All three are AA’atching the game eagerly, and
joining in the cheering Avhich folloAvs every good
hit. It is pleasing to see the easy friendly foot-
ing which the pupils are on Avith their master,
perfectly respectful, yet Avith no reserve and
nothing forced in their intercourse. Tom has
clearly abandoned the old theory of “natural
enemies” in this case at any rate.

126

TQM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

But it is time to listen to what they are say-
ing, and see what we can gather out of it.

“I don’t object to your theory,” says the
master, “and I allow you have made a fair
case for yourself. But now, in such books as
Aristophanes, for instance, you’ve been reading
a play this half with the Doctor, haven’t you?”
“ Yes, the Knights,” answered Tom,

“ Well, I’m sure you would have enjoyed the
wonderful humor of it twice as much if you had
taken more pains with your scholarship.”

“Well, sir, I don’t believe any boy in the
form enjoyed the sets-to between Cleon and the
Sausage-seller more than I did — eh, Arthur?”
said Tom, giving him a stir with his foot.

“Yes, I must say he did,” said Arthur. “ I
think, sir, you’ve hit upon the wrong book there.”
“Not a bit of it,” said the master. “ Why,
in those very passages of arms, how can you
thoroughly appreciate them unless you are mas-
ter of the weapons? and the weapons are the
language, which you. Brown, havo never half

worked at ; and so, as I say, you must have lost
all the delicate shades of meaning which make
the best part of the fun.”

“ Oh ! well played — bravo, Johnson !” shout-
ed Arthur, dropping his hat and clapping furi-
ously, and Tom joined in with a “Bravo, John-
son!” which might have been heard at the
chapel.

“Eh! what was it? I didn’t see,” inquired
the master; “they only got one run, I thought?”

“No, but such a ball, three-quarters length
and coming straight for his leg-bail. Nothing
but that turn of the wrist could have saved him,
and he drew it away to leg for a safe one.
Bravo, Johnson !”

“How well they are bowling, though, ’’said
Arthur; “they don’t mean to be beat, I can
see.”

“There now,” struck in the master, “you
see that’s just what I have been preaching this
half-hour. The delicate play is the true thing.
I don’t understand cricket, so I don’t enjoy

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

127

those fine draws which you tell me are the best
play, though when you or Haggles hit a ball
hard away for six I am as delighted as any one.
Don’t you see the analogy ?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, looking up rogu-
ishly, “I see ; only the question remains wheth-
er I should have got most good by understand-
ing Greek particles or cricket thoroughly. I’m
such a thick, I never should have had time for
both.”

“I see you are an incorrigible,” said the
master, with a chuckle; “but I refute you by
an example. Arthur there has taken in Greek
and cricket too.”

“Yes, but no thanks to him; Greek came
natural to him. Why, when he first came I
remember he used to read Herodotus for pleas-
ure as I did Don Quixote, and couldn’t have
made a false concord if he’d tried ever so hard
— and then I looked after his cricket.”

“ Out ! Bailey has given him out — do you
see, Tom?” cries Arthur. “How foolish of
them to run so hard.”

“Well, it can’t be helped, he has play'ed very
well. Whose turn is it to go in ?”

“I don’t know; they’ve got your list in the
tent.”

“ Let’s go and see,” said Tom, rising ; but at
this moment Jack Eaggles and two or three
more came running to the island moat,

“ Oh, Brown, mayn’t I go in next ?” shouts
the Swiper.

“Whose name is next on the list?” says
the Captain.

“Winter’s, and then Arthur’s,” answers the
boy who carries it ; “but there are only twenty-
six runs to get, and no time to lose. I heard
Mr. Aislabie say that the stumps must be drawn
at a quarter past eight exactly.”

“Oh, do let the Swiper go in,” chorus the
boys; so Tom yields against his better judg-
ment.

“I dare say now I’ve lost the match by this
nonsense,” he says, as he sits down again;
“ they’ll be sure to get Jack’s wicket in three
or four minutes; however, you’ll have the
chance, sir, of seeing a hard hit or two,” adds
he, smiling, and turning to the master.

“ Come, none of your irony. Brown, ’’answers
the master. “I’m beginning to understand
the game scientifically. What a noble game
it is, too !”

“ Isn’t it? But it’s more than a game. It’s
an institution,” said Tom.

“Yes,” said Arthur, “ the birthright of Brit-
ish boys old and young, as habeas corj)us and
trial by jury are of British men.”

“The discipline and reliance on one another
which it teaches is so valuable, I think,” went
on the master, “it ought to be such an unself-
ish game. It merges the individual in the
eleven ; he doesn’t play that he may win, but
that his side may.”

“That’s very true,” said Tom, “and that’s
why football and cricket, now one comes to
think of it, are much better games than fives or

hare-and-hounds, or any others where the object
is to come in first or to win for one’s self, and
not that one’s side may Avin.”

“And then the Captain of the eleven !” said
the master, “ what a post is his in our School-
world! almost as hard as the Doctor’s; requir-
ing skill and gentleness and firmness, and I
know not wliat other rare qualities.”

“Which don’t he may wish he may get?”
said Tom, laughing; “at any rate he hasn’t got
them yet, or he wouldn’t have been such a flat
to-night as to let Jack Raggles go in, out of his
turn.”

“Ah! the Doctor ncA'cr would have done
that,” said Arthur demurely. “Tom, you’ve
a great deal to learn yet in the art of ruling.”

“ Well, I wish you’d tell the Doctor so, tlien,
and get him to let me stop till I’m twenty. I
don’t Avant to leaA'e, I’m sure.”

“What a sight it is,’’ broke in the master,
“the Doctor as a ruler! Perhaps ours is the
only little corner in the British Empire Avhich
is thoroughly, Avisely, and strongly ruled just
now. I’m more and more thankful every day
of my life that I came here to be under him.”
“So am I, I’m sure,” said Tom ; “and more
and more sorry that I’ve got to leave.”

“ Every place and thing one sees here re-
minds one of some wise act of his,” went on the
master. “This island noAV — you remember
the time, BroAvn, when it Avas laid out in small
gardens, and culth’ated by frost-bitten fags in
February and March ?”

“ Of course I do,” said Tom ; “didn’t I hate
spending two hours in the afternoons grubbing
in the tough dirt with the stump of a fiA’es’-bat ?
But turf-cart Avas good fun enough.”

“ I dare say it was, but it was alAA'ays leading
to fights Avith the townspeople ; and then the
stealing floAvers out of all the gardens in Rugby
for the Easter show was abominable.”

“Well, so it Avas,”said Tom, looking doAA'n,
“but Ave fags couldn’t helj> ourseh'es. But
Avhat has that to do Avith the Doctor’s ruling?”
“A great deal, I think,” said the master;
“Avhat brought island-fagging to an end?”
“Why, the Easter Speeches Avere put off till
Midsummer,” said Tom, “and the sixth had
gymnastic poles put up here.”

“Well, and who changed the time of the
Speeches, and put the idea of gymnastic poles
into the heads of their Avorships the sixth form ?”
said the master.

“The Doctor, I suppose,” said Tom. “I
never thought of that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” said the master, “or
else, fag as you were, you Avould have shouted
Avith the Avhole school against putting doAvn old
customs. And that’s the Avay that all the Doc-
tor’s reforms haA^e been carried out when he has
been left to himself — quietly and naturally,
putting a good thing in the place of a bad, and
letting the bad die out; no Avavering and no
hurry — the best thing that could be done for
the time being, and patience for the rest.”
“Just Tom’s OAvn Avay,” chimed in Arthur,

128

TOM BKOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

nudging Tom with his elbow, “ driving a nail
where it will go;” to which allusion Tom an-
swered by a sly kick.

“Exactly so,” said the master, innocent of
the allusion and by-play.

Meantime Jack Haggles, with his sleeves
tucked up above his great brown elbows, scorn-
ing pads and gloves, has presented himself at
the wicket ; and, having run one for a forward
drive of Johnson’s, is about to receive his first
ball. There are only twenty-four runs to make,
and four wickets to go down ; a winning match
if they play decently steady. The ball is a very
swift one, and rises fast, catching Jack on the
outside of the thigh, and bounding away as if
from india-rubber, while they run two for a leg-
bye amidst great applause, and sliouts from
Jack’s many admirers. The next ball is a beau-
tifully pitched ball for the outer stump, which
the reckless and unfeeling Jack catches hold of,
and. hits right round to leg for five, while the
applause becomes deafening: only seventeen
runs to get with four wickets — the game is all
but ours !

It is over now, and Jack 'walks swaggering
about his wicket, with his bat over his shoulder,
while Mr. Aislabie holds a short parley with his
men. Then the cover-point hitter, that cun-
ning man, goes on to bowl slow twisters. Jack
waves his hand triumphantly towards the tent,
as much as to say, “ See if I don’t finish it all
off now in three hits !”

Alas, my son Jack ! the enemy is too old for
thee. The first ball of the over Jack steps out
and meets, swiping with all his force. If he
had only allowed for the twist ! but he hasn’t,
and so the hall goes spinning up straight in the
air, as if it would never come down again.
Away runs Jack, shouting and trusting to the
chapter of accidents, but the bowler runs steadily
under it, judging every spin, and calling out “ I
have it,” catches it, and playfully pitches it on
to the back of the stalwart Jack, who is depart-
ing with a rueful countenance.

“I knew how it would be,” says Tom, rising.
“ Come along ; the game’s getting very serious.”

So they leave the island and go to the tent,
and after deep consultation Arthur is sent in,
and goes off to the wicket with a last exhorta-
tion from Tom to play steady and keep his bat
straight. To the suggestions that Winter is the
best bat left Tom only replies, “Arthur is the
steadiest, and Johnson will make the runs if
the wicket is only kept up.”

“ I am surprised to see Arthur in the eleven,”
said the master, as they stood together in front
of the dense crowd, which was now closing in
round the ground.

“ Well, I’m not quite sure that he ought to
be in for his play,” said Tom, “ but I couldn’t
help putting him in. It will do him so much
good, and you can’t think what I owe him.”

The master smiled. The clock strikes eight,
and the whole field becomes fevered with ex-
citement. Arthur, after two narrow escapes,
scores one ; and Johnson gets the ball. The

bowling and fielding are superb, and Johnson’s
batting worthy the occasion. He makes nere a
two, and there a one, managing to keep the
ball to himself, and Arthur backs up and runs
perfectly : only eleven runs to make now, and
the crowd scarcely breathe. At last Arthur
gets the ball again, and actually drives it for-
ward for two, and feels prouder than when he
got the three best prizes, at hearing Tom’s shout
of joy, “Well played, well played, young un!”

But the next ball is too much for a young
hand, and his bails fly different ways. Nine
runs to make, and two wickets to go down — it
is too much for human nerves.

Before Winter can get in, the omnibus which
is to take the Lords’s men to the train pulls up
at the side of the close, and Mr. Aislabie and
Tom consult, and give out that the stumps will
be drawn after the next over. And so ends the
great match. Winter and Johnson carry out
their bats, and, it being a one day’s match, the
Lords’s men are declared the winners, they hav-
ing scored the most in the first innings.

But such a defeat is a victory : so think Tom
and all the School eleven, as they accompany
their conquerors to the omnibus, and send them
off with three ringing cheers, after Mr. Aislabie
has shaken hands all round, saying to Tom, “I
must compliment you, sir, on your eleven, and
I hope we shall have you for a member if you
come up to town.”

As Tom and the rest of the eleven were turn-
ing back into the close, and every body was be-
ginning to cry out for another country-dance,
encouraged by the success of the night before,
the young master, who was just leaving the
close, stopped him, and asked him to come up
to tea at half-past eight, adding, “I won’t keep
you more than half an hour, and ask Arthur to
come up too.”

“ I’ll come up with you directly, if you’ll let
me,” said Tom, “for I feel rather melancholy,
and not quite up to the country-dance and sup-
per with the rest.”

“Do by all means,” said the master; “I’ll
wait here for you.”

So Tom went off to get his boots and things
from the tent, to tell Arthur of the invitation,
and to speak to his second in command about
stopping the dancing and shutting up the close
as soon as it grew dusk. Arthur promised to
follow as soon as he had had a dance. So
Tom handed his things over to the man in
charge of the tent, and walked quietly away to
the gate where the master was waiting, and the
two took their way together up the Hillmorton
road.

Of course they found the master’s house
locked up, and all the servants away in the
close, about this time, no doubt, footing it away
on the grass with extreme delight to them-
selves, and in utter oblivion of the unfortunate
bachelor, their master, whose one enjoyment in
the shape of meals was his “dish of tea” (as
our grandmothers called it) in the evening ;
and the phrase was apt in his case, for he al-

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

129

ways poured his out into the saucer before
drinking. Great was the good man’s horror
at finding himself shut out of his own house.
Had he been alone, he would have treated it as
a matter of course, and would have strolled
contentedly up and down his gravel-walk until
some one came home ; but he was hurt at the
stain on his character of host, especially as the
guest was a pupil. However, the guest seemed
to think it a great joke, and presently, as they
poked about round the house, mounted a wall,
from which he could reach a passage window :
the window, as it turned out, was not bolted,
so in another minute Tom was in the house and
down at the front door, which he opened from
inside. The master chuckled grimly at this
burglarious entry, and insisted on leaving the
hall-door and two of the front windows open, to
frighten the truants on their return ; and then
the two set about foraging for tea, in which
operation the master was much at fiiult, having
the faintest possible idea of where to find any
thing, and being moreover wondrously short-
sighted ; but Tom by a sort of instinct knew
the right cupboards in the kitchen and pantry,
and soon managed to place on the snuggery
table better materials for a meal than had ap-
peared there probably during the reign of his

tutor, who was then and there initiated, amongst
other things, into the excellence of that myste-
rious condiment, a dripping-cake. The cake
was newly baked, and all rich and flaky; Tom
had found it reposing in the cook’s private cup-
board, awaiting her return ; and, as a warning
to her, they finished it to the last crumb. The
kettle sang away merrily on the hob of the
snuggeiy, for, notwithstanding the time of year,
they lighted a fire, throwing both the windows
wide open at the same time ; the heaps of books
and papers were pushed away to the other end
of the table, and the great solitary engraving of
King’s College Chapel over the mantel-piece
looked less stiff than usual, as they settled
themselves down in the twilight to the serious
drinking of tea.

After some talk on the match, and other in-
different subjects, the conversation came natu-
rally back to Tom’s approaching departure, over
which he began again to make his moan.

“Well, we shall all miss you quite as much
as you will miss us,” said the master. “You
are the Nestor of the School now, are you not?”
“ Yes, ever since East left,” answered Tom.
“By-the-by, have you heard from him?”

“ Yes, I had a letter in February, just before
he started for India to join his regiment.”

ICO

TOxM EEOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

“He will make a capital officer.”

“Ay, won’t he!” said Tom, brightening;
“no fellow could handle boys better, and I sup-
pose soldiers are very like boys. And he’ll nev-
er tell them to go where he won’t go himself.
No mistake about that — a braver fellow never
walked.”

“His year in the sixth will have taught him
a good deal that will be useful to him now,”

“ So it will,” said Tom, staring into the fire.
“Poor dear Harry,” he went on, “how well I
remember the day we were put out of the twen-
ty. How he rose to the situation, and burnt his
cigar-cases, and gave away his pistols, and pon-
dered on the constitutional authority of the
sixth, and his new duties to the Doctor, and the
fifth form, and the fags. Ay, and no fellow
ever acted up to them better, though he was al-
ways a people’s man — for the fags, and against
constituted authorities. He couldn’t help that,
you know. I’m sure the Doctor must have
liked him ?” said Tom, looking up inquiringly.

“ The Doctor sees the good in every one, and
appreciates it,” said the master, dogmatically;
“ but I hope East will get a good colonel. He
won’t do if he can’t respect those above him.
How long it took him, even here, to learn the
lesson of obeying.”

“ Well, I wish I were alongside of him,” said
Tom. “ If I can’t be at Eugby, I want to be at
work in the world, and not dawdling away three
years at Oxford.”

“What do you mean by ‘at work in the
world ?’ ” said the master, pausing, with his lips
close to the saucerful of tea, and peering at Tom
over it.

“Well, I mean real work ; one’s profession ;
whatever one will have really to do, and make
one’s living by. I want to be doing some .real
good, feeling that I am not only at play in the
world,” answered Tom, rather puzzled to find
out himself what he really did mean.

“ You are mixing up two very different things
in your head, I think, Brown,” said the master,
putting down the empty saucer, “and you ought
to get clear about them. You talk of ‘ work-
ing to get your living,’ and ‘doing some real
good in the world,’ in the same breath. Now,
you may be getting a very good living in a pro-
fession, and yet doing no good at all in the
world, but quite the contrary, at the same time.
Keep the latter before you as your one object,
and you will be right, whether you make a liv-
ing or not ; but if you dwell on the other, you’ll
very likely drop into mere money-making, and
let the world take care of itself for good or evil.
Don’t be in a hurry about finding your work in
the world for yourself ; you are not old enough
to judge for yourself yet, but just look about you
in the place you find yourself in, and try to
make things a little better and honester thei'e.
You’ll find plenty to keep your hand in at Ox-
ford, or wherever else you go. And don’t be
led away to think this part of the world impor-
tant, and that unimportant. Every corner of
the world is important. No man knows wheth-

er this part or that is most so, but every man
may do some honest work in his own corner.”
And then the good man went on to talk wisely to
Tom of the sort of work which he might take up
as an undergraduate ; and warned him of the
prevalent University sins, and explained to him
the many and great differences between Univer-
sity and School life ; till the twilight changed
into darkness, and they heard the truant serv-
ants stealing in by the back entrance.

“I wonder w'here Arthur can be,” said Tom
at last, looking at his watch ; “why, it’s nearly
half-past nine already.”

“Oh, he is comfortably at supper with the
eleven, forgetful of his oldest friends,” said the
master. “ Nothing has given me greater pleas-
ure,” he went on, “than your friendship for
him ; it has been the making of you both.”

“Of me, at any rate,” answered Tom: “I
should never have been here now but for him.
It was the luckiest chance in the world that
sent him to Eugby, and made him my chum.”
“Why do you talk of lucky chances?” said
the master; “I don’t know that there are any
such things in the world ; at any rate there was
neither luck nor chance in that matter.”

Tom looked at him inquiringly, and he went
on. “Do you remember when the Doctor lec-
tured you and East at the end of one half-year,
when you were in the shell, and had been get-
ting into all sorts of scrapes?”

“Yes, well enough,” said Tom ; “ it was the
half-year before Arthur came.”

“ Exactly so,” answered the master. “Now,
I was with him a few minutes afterwards, and
he was in great disti*ess about you two. And,
after some talk, we both agreed that you in par-
ticular wanted some object in the School beyond
games and mischief ; for it was quite clear that
you never would make the regular school-work
your first object. And so the Doctor, at the
beginning of the next half-year, looked out the
best of the new boys, and separated you and
East, and put the young boy into your study, in
the hope that when you had somebody to lean
on you, you would begin to stand a little stead-
ier yourself, and get manliness and thoughtful-
ness. And I can assure you he has watched the
experiment ever since with great satisfaction.
Ah ! not one of you boys will ever know the
anxiety you have given him, or the care with
which he has watched over every step in your
school lives.”

Up to this time, Tom had never wholly given
in to, or understood the Doctor. At first he
had thoroughly feared him. For some yeai-s,
as I have tried to show, he had learned to re-
gard him with love and respect, and to think
him a very great and wise and good man. But,
as regarded his own position in the School, of
which he was no little proud, Tom had no idea
of giving any one credit for it but himself ; and,
truth to tell, was a very self-conceited young
gentleman on the subject. He was wont to
boast that he had fought his own way fairly up
the School, and had never made up to, or been

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

131

taken up by any bijx fellow or master, and that
it was now quite a different place from what it
was when he first came. And, indeed, though
he didn’t actually boast of it, yet in his secret
soul he did to a great extent believe that the
great reform in the School had been owing
quite as much to himself as to any one else.
Arthur, he acknowledged, had done him good,
and taught him a good deal, so had other boys
in different ways, but they had not had the same
means of influence on the School in general ;
and as for the Doctor, why, he was a splendid
master, but every one knew that masters could
do very little out of school hours. In short, he
felt on terms of equality with his chief, so far as
the social state of the School was concerned, and
thought that the Doctor would find it no easy
matter to get on without him. Moreover, his
school Toryism was still strong, and he looked
still with some jealousy on the Doctor, as some-
what of a fanatic in the matter of change ; and
thought it very desirable for the School that he
should have some wise person (such as himself)
to look sharply after vested School-rights, and
see that nothing was done to the injury of the
republic without due protest.

It w'as a new light to him to find that, besides
teaching the sixth, and governing and guiding
the whole School, editing classics, and writing
histories, the great Head-master had found time
in those busy years to watch over the career,
even of him, Tom Brown, and his particular
friends — and, no doubt, of fifty other boys at the
same time ; and all this without taking the least
credit to himself, or seeming to know, or let any
one else know, that he ever thought particularly
of any boy at all.

However, the Doctor’s victory was complete
from that moment over Tom Brown at any
rate. He gave way at all points, and the ene-
my marched right over him — cavalry, infantr}",
and artillery, and the land transport corps, and
the camp followers. It had taken eight long
years to do it, but now it was done thoroughly,
and there wasn’t a corner of him left which
didn’t believe in the Doctor. Had he returned
to school again, and the Doctor begun the half-
year by abolishing fagging, and foot-ball, and
the Saturday half-holiday, or all or any of the
most cherished school institutions, Tom would
have supported him with the blindest faith.
And so, after a half confession of his previous
short-comings, and sorrowful adieus to his tutor,
from whom he received two beautifully bound
volumes of the Doctor’s sermons, as a parting
present, he marched down to the School-house,
a hero-worshipper who would have satisfied the
soul of Thomas Carlyle himself.

There he found the eleven at high jinks after
supper. Jack Haggles shouting comic songs, and
performing feats of strength ; and was greeted
by a chorus of mingled remonstrance at his de-
sertion, and joy at his reappearance. And fall-
ing in with the humor of the evening, was soon
as great a boy as all the rest ; and at ten o’clock
was chaired round the quadrangle, on one of the

hall benches borne aloft b}' the eleven, shouting
in chorus, “ For he’s a jolly good fellow,” while
old Thomas, in a melting mood, and the other
School-house servants, stood looking on.

And the next morning after breakfast he
squared up all the cricketing accounts, went
round to his tradesmen and other acquaintance
and said his hearty good-byes; and by twelve
o’clock was in the train, and away for London,
no longer a school-boy, and divided in his
thoughts between hero-worship, honest regrets
over the long stage of his life which was now
slipping out of sight behind him, and hopes and
resolves for tlie next stage, upon which he was
entering with all the confidence of a young trav-
eller.

CHAPTER IX.

FINIS.

“ Strange friend, past, present, and to be :

Loved deeplier, darklier understood ;

Behold, I dream a dream of good,

And mingle all the world with thee.”

Tennyson.

In the summer of 1842, our hero stopped once
again at the well-known station ; and, leaving
his bag and fishing-rod with a porter, walked
slowly and sadly up towards the town. It was
now July. He had rushed away from Oxford
the moment that terra was over, for a fishing
ramble in Scotland with two college friends, and
had been for three weeks living on oat-cake,
mutton-hams, and whisky, in the wildest parts
of Skye. They had descended one sultiy even-
ing on the little inn at Kyle Rhea ferry, and,
while Tom and another of the party put their
tackle together and began exploring the stream
for a sea-trout for supper, the third strolled into
the house to arrange for their entertainment.
Presently, he came out in a loose blouse and
slippers, a short pipe in his mouth, and an old
newspaper in his hand, and threw himself on
the heathery scrub which met the shingle, with-
in easy hail of the fishermen. There he lay,
the picture of free-and-easy, loafing, hand-to-
mouth young England, “ improving his mind,”
as he shouted to them, by the perusal of the
fortnight -old weekly paper, soiled with the
marks of toddy-glasses and tobacco-ashes, the
legacy of the last traveller, which he had hunt-
ed out from the kitchen of the little hostelry,
and being a youth of a communicative turn of
mind, began imparting the contents to the fish-
ermen as he went on.

“ What a bother they are making about these
wretched Corn-laws ! Here’s three or four col-
umns full of nothing but sliding-scales and fix-
ed duties. — Hang this tobacco, it’s always going
out! — Ah, here’s something better — a splendid
match between Kent and England, Brown !
Kent winning by three wickets. Felix fifty-six
runs without a chance, and not out !”

Tom, intent on a fish which had risen at him
twice, answered only with a grunt.

132

TOM BKOWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

OliAIKINO TOM IM THE QrADKANGLE.

“Any thing about the Goodwood?” called
out the third man.

“ Rory-O-More drawn. Butterfly colt amiss, ”
shouted the student.

“Just my luck,” grumbled the inquirer, jerk-
ing his flies off the water, and throwing again
with a heavy sullen splash, and frightening
Tom’s fish.

“I say, can’t you throw lighter over there?

we ain’t fishing for grampuses,” shouted Tom
across the stream.

“ Hullo, Brown I here’s something for you,”
called out the reading man next moment.
“ Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is
dead.”

Tom’s hand stopped half-way in his cast, and
his line and flies went all tangling round and
round his rod ; you might have knocked him

TOM BROWN’S

over with a feather. Neither of his companions
took any notiee of him, luckily ; and with a vio-
lent effort he set to work mechanically to disen-
tangle his line. He felt completely carried off
his moral and intellectual legs, as if he had lost
his standing-point in the invisible world. Be-
sides which, the deep loving loyalty which he
felt for his old leader made the shock intensely
})ainful. It was the first great wrencii of his
life, the first gap which the angel Death had
made in his circle, and he felt numbed, and
beaten down, and spiritless. Well, well! I
believe it was good for him and for many others
in like case ; who had to learn by that loss
that the soul of man can not stand or lean upon
any human prop, however strong and wise and
good ; but that He upon whom alone it can
stand and lean will knock away all such props
in His own wise and merciful way, until there
is no ground or stay left but Himself, the Rock
of Ages, upon whom alone a sure foundation for
every soul of man is laid.

As he wearily labored at his line, the thought
struck him, “ It may be all false, a mere news-
paper lie,” and he strode up to the recumbent
smoker.

“ Let me look at the paper,” said he.

‘‘Nothing else in it,” answered the other,
handing it up to him listlessly. — “Hullo,
Brown ! what’s the matter, old fellow — ain’t you
well?”

“Where is it?” said Tom, turning over the
leaves, his hands trembling, and his eyes swim-
ming, so that he could not read.

“ What? What are jou looking for ?’’ said
his friend, jumping up and. looking over his
shoulder.

“ That — about Arnold,” said Tom.

“ Ob, here,” said the other, putting his finger
on the paragraph. Tom read it over and over
again ; there could be no mistake of identity,
though the account was short enough.

“ Thank you,” said he at last, dropping the
paper, “I shall go for a walk: don’t you and
Herbert wait supper for me.” And away he
strode, up over the moor at the back of the
house, to be alone, and master his grief if pos-
sible.

His friend looked after him, sympathizing and
wondering, and, knocking the ashes out of his
pipe, walked over to Herbert. After a short
parley, they walked together up to the house.

“I’m afraid that confounded newspaper has
spoiled Brown’s fun for this trip.”

“ How odd that he should be so fond of his
old master,” said Herbert. Yet they also were
both public-school men.

The two, however, notwithstanding Tom’s
prohibition, waited supper for him, and had
every thing ready when he came back some
half an hour afterwards. But he could not join
in their cheerful talk, and the party was soon
silent, notwithstanding the efforts of all three.
One thing only had-Tom resolved, and that was,
that he eouldn’t stay in Scotland any longer;
he felt an irresistible longing to get to Rugby,

SCHOOL DAYS. ISff

and then liome, and soon broke it to the others,
who had too much tact to oppose.

So by daylight the next morning he was
marching through Ross-shire, and in the even-
ing hit the Caledonian canal, took the next
steamer, and travelled as fast as boat and rail-
way could carry him to the Rugby station.

As he walked up to the town, he felt shy and
afraid of being seen, and took the back streets;
why, he didn’t know, but he followed his in-
stinct. At the School-gates he made a dead
pause ; there was not a soul in the quadrangle
— all was lonely, and silent, and sad. So with
another effort he strode through the quadrangle,
and into the School-house offices.

He found the little matron in her room in
deep mourning ; shook her hand, tried to talk,
and moved nervously about: she was evidently
thinking of the same subject as he, but he
couldn’t begin talking.

“Where shall I find Thomas?” said he at
last, getting desperate.

“In the servants’ hall, I think, sir. But
won’t you take an}" thing?” said the matron,
looking rather disappointed.

“No, thank you,” said he, and strode off
again to find the old Verger, who was sitting
in his little den as of old, puzzling over hiero-
glyphics.

He looked up through his spectacles, as Tom
seized his hand and wrung it.

“Ah! you’ve heard all about it, sir, I sec,”
said he.

Tom nodded, and then sat down on the shoe-
board, while the old man told his tale, and
wiped his spectacles, and fairly flowed over
with quaint, homely, honest sorrow.

By the time he had done, Tom felt much
better.

“ Where is he buried, Thomas ?” said he at
last.

“Under the altar in the chapel, sir,”answered
Thomas. “You’d like to have the key, I dare
say.”

“Thank you, Thomas — Yes, I should very
much.” And the old man fumbled among his
bunch, and then got up, as though he would go
with him ; but after a few steps stopped short,
and said, “ Perhaps you’d like to go by your-
self, sir?”

Tom nodded, and the bunch of keys were
handed to him, with an injunction to be sure
and lock the door after him, and bring them
back before eight o’clock.

He walked quickly through the quadrangle
and out into the close. The longing which
liad been upon him and driven him thus far,
like the gad-fly in the Greek legends, giving
him no rest in mind or body, seemed all of a
sudden not to be satisfied, but to shrivel up,
and pall. “ Why should I go on ? It’s no
use,” he thought, and threw himself at full
length on the turf, and looked vaguely and list-
lessly at all the well-known objects. There
were a few of the town-boys playing cricket,
their wicket pitched on the l>ost piece in the

134

TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.

middle of the big-side ground, a sin about
equal to sacrilege in the eyes of a captain of
the eleven. He was very nearly getting up to
go and send them off. “Pshaw! they won’t
remember me. They’ve more right there than

where the fights came off; where he himself
had fought six years ago his first and last battle.
He conjured up the scene till he could almost
hear the shouts of the ring, and East’s whisper
in his ear ; and looking across the close to the

TO*m’S visit to TUE TOMii OF Iflt. AKNOLD.

I,” he muttered. And the thought that his
sceptre had departed, and his mark was wearing
out, came home to him for tlie first time, and
bitterly enough. He was lying on the very spot

Doctor’s private door, half expected to see it
open, and the tall figure in cap and gown come
striding under the elm-trees towards him.

No, no ! that sight could never be seen again.

TOM BROWN S SCHOOL DAYS.

185

There was no flag flying on the round tower ;
the School-house windows were all shuttered
up : and when the flag went up again, and the
shutters came down, it would be to welcome a
stranger. All that was left on earth of him
whom he had honored, was lying cold and still
under the chapel floor. He would go in and
see the place once more, and then leave it once
for all. New men and new methods might do
for other people : let those who would, worship
the rising star ; he at least would be faithful to
the sun which had set. And so he got up, and
walked to the chapel door and unlocked it,
fancying himself the only mourner in all the
broad land, and feeding on his own selfish sor-
row.

He passed through the vestibule, and tlien
paused for a moment to glance over the empty
benches. His heart was still proud and high,
and he walked up to the seat which he had last
occupied as a sixth-form boy, and sat himself
down there to collect his thoughts.

And, truth to tell, they needed collecting and
setting in order not a little. The memories of
eight years were all dancing through his brain,
and carrying him about whither they would ;
while beneath them all, his heart was throbbing
with the dull sense of a loss that could never be
made up to him. The rays of the evening sun
came solemnly through the painted windows
above his head, and fell in gorgeous colors on
the opposite w'all, and the perfect stillness
soothed his spirit by little and little. And he
turned to the pulpit, and looked at it, and then,
leaning forw'ard with his head on his hands,
groaned aloud. “ If he could only have seen
the Doctor again for one five minutes ; have
told him all that w'as in his heart, what he owed
to him, how he loved and reverenced him, and
w^ould, by God’s help, follow his steps in life and
death, he could have borne it all without a mur-
mur. But that he should have gone away for-
ever without knowing it all, was too much to
bear.” — “But am I sure that he does not know
it all?” — the thought made him start — “May
he not even now be near me, in this very chapel ?
If he be, am I sorrowing as he would have me
sorrow — as I should wish to have sorrowed when
I shall meet him again?”

He raised himself up and looked round ; and
after a minute rose and walked humbly down to
the lowest bench, and sat down on the very seat
which he had occupied on his first Sunday at
Rugby. And then the old memories rushed
back again, but softened and subdued, and

soothing him as he let himself be carried aw ay
by them. And he looked up at the great paint,
ed window above the altar, and remembered how
when a little boy he used to try not to look
through it at the elm-trees and the rooks, before
the painted glass came — and the subscription
for the painted glass, and the letter he wrote
home for money to give to it. And there,
down below, was the very name of the boy who
sat on his right hand on that first day, scratched
rudely in the oak panelling.

And then came the thought of all his old
schoolfellows ; and form after form of boys, no-
bler and braver and purer than he, rose up and
seemed to rebuke him. Could he not think of
them, and what they had felt and were feeling,
they who had honored and loved from the first,
the man whom he had taken years to know and
love? Could he not think of those yet dearer
to him who was gone, w'ho bore his name and
shared his blood, and were now without a hus-
band or a father ? Then the grief tvhich he be-
gan to share with others became gentle and
holy, and he rose up once more, and walked up
the steps to the altar ; and, while the tears flowed
freely down his cheeks, knelt down humbly and
hopefully, to lay down there his share of a bur-
den which had proved itself too heavy for him
to bear in his own strength.

Here let us leave him — where better could we
leave him than at the altar, before which he had
first caught a glimpse of the glory of his birth-
right, and felt the drawing of the bond which
links all living souls together in one brother-
hood— at the grave, beneath the alttw, of him
who had opened his eyes to see that glory,
and softened his heart till it could feel that
bond ?

And let us not be hard on him, if at that mo-
ment his soul is fuller of the tomb and him who
lies there, than of the altar and Him of whom it
speaks. Such stages have to be gone through,
I believe, by all young and brave souls who
must win their way, through hero-worship, to
the worship of Him who is the King and Lord
of heroes. For it is only through our mysteri-
ous human relationships, through the love and
tenderness and purity of mothers and sisters and
wives, through the strength and courage and
wisdom of fathers and brothers and teachers,
that we can come to the knowledge of Him, in
whom alone the love, and the tenderness, and
the purity, and the strength, and the courage,
and the wisdom of all these dwell for ever and
ever in perfect fullness.

THE EXE.

r, ENJOYS HIMSELF TEBY MHOH.’

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

“TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS.”

NEW EDITION.

IVini ILLUSTRATIONS BY SYDNEY P. HALL.

NEW YORK:

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,

FRANKLIN SQUARE.

1874.

THE HEY. F. D. MAURICE,

IN MEMORY OF FOURTEEN YEARS’ FELLOW WORK,
AND IN TESTIMONY OF

EVER-INCREASING AFFECTION AND GRATITUDE,
THIS VOL UME IS DEDICA TED
BY

THE AUTHOR.

Preface.

PEEFACES written to explain the objects or meaning of a book, or to
make any appeal, ad misericordiam or other, in its favor, are, in my
opinion, nuisances. Any book worth reading will explain its own objects
and meaning ; and the more it is criticised and turned inside out, the better
for it and its author. Of all books, too, it seems to me that novels require
prefaces least — at any rate, on their first appearance. Notwithstanding
which belief, I must ask readers for three minutes’ patience before they
make trial of this book.

The natural pleasure which I felt at the unlooked-for popularity of the
first part of the present story was much lessened by the pertinacity with
which many persons, acquaintance as well as strangers, would insist (both in
public and private) on identifying the hero and the author. On the appear-
ance of the first few numbers of the present continuation in Macmillan's
Magazine, the same thing occurred, and, in fact, reached such a pitch as to
lead me to make some changes in the story. Sensitiveness on such a point
may seem folly ; but if readers had felt the sort of loathing and disgust
which one feels at the notion of painting a favorable likeness of one’s self in
a work of fiction, they would not wonder at it. So, now that this book is
finished, and Tom Brown, so far as I am concerned, is done with forever, I
must take this my first and last chance of saying that he is not I, either as
boy or man — in fact, not to beat about the bush, is a much braver, and no-
bler, and purer fellow than I ever was.

When I first resolved to write the book, I tried to realize to myself what
the commonest type of English boy of the upper middle class was, so far as
my experience went; and to that type I have throughout adhered, trying
simply to give a good specimen of the genus. I certainly have placed him
in the country and scenes which I know best myself, for the simple reason
that I knew them better than any others, and therefore was less likely to
blunder in writing about them.

As to the name, which has been, perhaps, the chief “cause of offense”
in this matter, the simple facts are, that I chose the name “ Brown ” because
it stood first in the trio of “Brown, Jones, and Kobinson,” which has be-
come a sort of synonym for the middle classes of Glreat Britain. It happens
that my own name and that of Brown have no single letter in common.

PEEFACE.

As to the Christian name of “Tom,” having chosen Brown, I could hardly
help taking it as the prefix. The two names have gone together in Eng-
land for two hundred years, and the joint name has not enjoyed much of a
reputation for respectability. This suited me exactly. I wanted the com-
monest name I could get, and did not want any name which had the least
heroic, or aristocratic, or even respectable savor about it. Therefore I had
a natural leaning to the combination which I found ready to my hand.
Moreover, I believed “Tom” to be a more specially English name than
John, the only other as to which I felt the least doubt. Whether it be that
Thomas a Becket was for so long the favorite English saint, or from what-
ever other cause, it certainly seems to be the fact that the name “ Thomas”
is much commoner in England than in any other country. The words
“tom-fool,” “tom-boy,” etc., though perhaps not complimentary to the
“Toms” of England, certainly show how large a family they must have
been. These reasons decided me to keep the Christian name which had
been always associated with “ Brown ;” and I own that the fact that it hap-
pened to be my own, never occurred to me as an objection till the mischief
was done, past recall.

I have only, then, to say, that neither is the hero a portrait of myself, nor
is there any other portrait in either of the books, except in the case of Br.
Arnold, where the true name is given. My deep feeling of gratitude to him,
and reverence for his memory, emboldened me to risk the attempt at a por-
trait in his case, so far as the character was necessary for the work. With
these remarks, I leave this volume in the hands of readers.

T. HUGHES.

Lincoln’s Inn, October, 1861.

CONTENTS

Chaptek Page

Introductokt 9

I. — St. Ambrose’s College 9

II. — A Eow ON THE Kiver 13

III. — A Breakfast at Drysdale’s.. 17

IV. — The St. Ambrose Boat-cltjb ;

its Ministry and their Bud-

get 23

V. — Hardy, the Servitor 27

VI. — How Drysdale and Blake

WENT FISHING 31

VII. — ^An Explosion 37

VIII. — Hardy’s History 40

IX. — “A Brown Bait” 46

X. — Summer Term 50

XL — Muscular Christianity 65

XII. — The Captain’s Notions 03

XIIL— The First Bump 69

XIV. — A Change in the Crew, and

WHAT CAME OF IT 75

XV, — A Storm brews and breaks. . 80

XVI. — The Storm rages 85

XVII. — New Ground 89

XVIII. — Englbbourn Village 93

XIX. — ^A Promise of fairer Weath-
er 100

XX. — The Eeconciliation 105

XXI. — Captain Hardy entertained

BY St. Ambrose 107

XXII. — Departures expected and un-
expected Ill

XXIII. — The Englebourn Constable.. 117

XXIV. — The Schools 122

XXV.— Commemoration 128

CuAPTEKT Page

XXVI, — The Long Walk in Christ-
church Meadows ......... 133

XXVII. — ^Lecturing a Lioness 140

XXVIII. — The End of the Fresh-
man’s Year 145

XXIX. — The Long Vacation Let-
ter-bag 149

XXX. — ^Ajiusements at Barton

Manor 155

XXXI. — Behind the Scenes 158

XXXII. —A Crisis 161

XXXIII. —Brown Patronus 167

XXXIV.— MHAEN APAN 175

XXXV. — Second Year 181

XXXVI. — The Eiver-side 186

XXXVII. — The Night-watch 190

XXXVIIL— Mary IN Maytair 194

XXXIX. — What came of the Night-

watch 198

XL. — Hue and Cry 204

XLI. — The Lieutenant’s Senti-
ments AND Problems .... 208

XLIL— Third Year 213

XLIII. — Afternoon Visitors 218

XLIV. — The Intercepted Letter-

bag 223

XLV. — Master’s Term 229

XL VI. — From India to Englebourn 233

XL VII. — The Wedding-day, 236

XL VIII, — The Beginning op The

End 240

XLIX. — ^The End 244

L. — The Postscript 248

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

Tom's “ Wine ” in honor of his Father Frontispiece.

Vignette Title-page.

Drgsdale's Room after a ^‘‘Breakfast ” Page 23

The Start for “ The Eights" at Iffley 73

The Reconciliation in Tom's Rooms 109

^‘‘Viva Voce." In the Schools" 124-

Show Sunday" in the Broad Walk 137

^'•'TisaLie. I knowed how 'twas." 200

Tom Brown at Oxford

INTRODUCTORY.

IN the Michaelmas term, after leaving school,
Tom Brown received a summons from the au-
thorities, and went up to matriculate at St. Am-
brose’s College, Oxford. He presented himself
at the college one afternoon, and was examined
by one of the tutors, who carried him, and sev-
eral other youths in like predicament, up to the
Senate House the next morning. Here they
went through the usual forms of subscribing to
the Articles, and otherwise testifying their loy-
alty to the established order of things, without
much thought, perhaps, but in very good faith
nevertheless. Having completed the ceremony
by paying his fees, our hero hurried back home,
without making any stay in Oxford. Fie had
often passed through it, so that the city had
not the charm of novelty for him, and he was
anxious to get home ; where, as he had never
spent an autumn away from school till now,
for the first time in his life he was having his
fill of hunting and shooting.

He had left school in June, and did not go
Tip to reside at Oxford tiil the end of the fol-
lowing January — seven^good months ; during a
part of which he had, indeed, read for four hours
or so a week with the curate of the parish, but
the residue had been exclusively devoted to
cricket and field sports. Now, admirable as
these institutions are, and beneficial as is their
influence on the youth of Britain, it is possible
for a youngster to get too much of them. So
it had fallen out with our hero. He was a
better horseman and shot, but the total relaxa-
tion of all the healthy discipline of school, the
regular hours and regular work to which he
had been used for so many years, had certainly
thrown him back in other ways. The whole
man had not grown ; so that we must not be
surprised to find him quite as boyish, now that
we fall in with him again, marching down to
St. Ambrose’s with a porter wheeling his lug-
gage after him on a truck, as when ive left him
at the end of his school career.

Tom was, in truth, beginning to feel that it
was high time for him to be getting to regular
work again of some sort. A landing-place is a
famous thing, but it is only enjoyable for a time
by any mortal who deserves one at all. So it
was with a feeling of unmixed pleasure that he

turned in at the St, Ambrose gates, and in-
quired of the porter what rooms had been al.
lotted to him within those venerable walls.

While the porter consulted his list, the great
college sun-dial over the lodge, which had late-
ly been renovated, caught Tom’s eye. The
motto underneath, “ Pereunt et imputantur,”
stood out, proud of its new gilding, in the bright
afternoon sun of a frosty January day; which
motto was raising sundry thoughts in his brain,
when the porter came upon the right place in
his list, and directed him to the end of his jour-
ney— No. 5 staircase, second quadrangle, three-
pair back. In which new home we shall leave
him to install himself, while we endeavor to
give the reader some notion of the college it-
self.

CHAPTER I.

ST. Ambrose’s college.

St. Ambrose’s College was a moderate-
sized one. There might have been some sev-
enty or eighty under-graduates in residence
when our hero appeared there as a freshman.
Of these, unfortunately for the college, there
w'ere a veiy large proportion of gentlemen-com-
moners ; enough, in fact, with the other men
whom they drew round them, and who lived
pretty much as they did, to form the largest and
leading set in the college. So the college was
decidedly fast.

The chief characteristic of this set was the
most reckless extravagance of every kind.
London wine-merchants furnished them with
liqueurs at a guinea a bottle, and w'ine at five
guineas a dozen ; Oxford and London tailors
vied with one another in providing them with
unheard-of quantities of the most gorgeous
clothing. They drove tandems in all direc-
tions, scattering their ample allowances, which
they treated as pocket-money, about road-side
inns and Oxford taverns with open hand, and
“going tick” for every thing which could by
possibility be booked. Their cigars cost two
guineas a pound ; their furniture was the best
that could be bought ; pine-apples, forced fruit,
and the most rare preserves figured at their
wine parties ; they hunted, rode steeple-chases
by day, played billiards until the gates closed.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

and then were ready for vingt-et-une, unlimited
loo, and hot drink in their own rooms, as long
as any one could be got to sit up and play.

The fast set then swamped, and gave the
tone to, the college ; at which fact no persons
wei'e more astonished and horrified than the au-
thorities of St. Ambrose.

That they, of all bodies in the world, should
be fairly run away with by a set of reckless,
loose young spendthrifts, was indeed a melan-
choly and unprecedented fact ; for the body of
fellows of St. Ambrose was as distinguished for
learning, morality, and respectability as any in
the university. The foundation was not, in-
deed, actually an open one. Oriel at that time
alone enjoyed this distinction ; but there were
a large number of open fellowships, and the in-
come of the college was large, and the livings
belonging to it numerous ; so that the best men
from other colleges were constantly coming in.
Some of these of a former generation had been
eminently successful in their management of
the college. The St. Ambrose under-gradu-
ates at one time had carried off almost all the
university prizes, and filled the class lists, while
maintaining, at the same time, the highest char-
acter for manliness and gentlemanly conduct.
This had lasted long enough to establish the
fame of the college, and great lords and states-
men had sent their sons there ; head-masters
had struggled to get the names of their best
pupils on the books ; in short, every one who
had a son, ward, or pupil, whom he wanted to
push forward in the world— '•who was meant to
cut a figure, and take the lead among men — left
no stone unturned to get him into St. Am-
brose’s ; and thought the first, and a very long,
step gained when he had succeeded.

But the governing bodies of colleges are al-
ways on the change, and in the course of things
men of other ideas came to rule at St. Ambrose
— shrewd men of the world ; men of business
some of them, with good ideas of making the
most of their advantages ; who said, “ Go to :
why should we not make the public pay for the
great benefits we confer on them ? Have we
not the very best article in the educational mar-
ket to supply — almost a monopoly of it — and
shall we not get the highest price for it ?” So,
by degrees, they altered many things in the
college. In the first place, under their auspi-
ces, gentlemen-commoners increased and mul-
tiplied ; in fact, the eldest sons of baronets,
even of squires, were scarcely admitted on any
other footing. As these young gentlemen paid
double fees to the college, and had great ex-
pectations of all sorts, it could not be expected
that they should be subject to quite the same
discipline as the common run of men, who
would have to make their own way in the world.
So the rules as to attendance at chapel and
lectures, though nominally the same for them
as for commoners, were in practice relaxed in
their favor ; and, that they might find all things
suitable to persons in their position, the kitchen
and buttery were worked up to a high state of

perfection, and St. Ambrose, from having been
one of the most reasonable, had come to be
about the most expensive college in the univer-
sity. These changes worked as their promoters
probably desired that they should w'ork, and the
college was full of rich men, and commanded
in the university the sort of respect which rich-
es bring with them. But the old reputation,
though still strong out of doors, was beginning
sadly to wane within the university precincts.
Fewer and fewer of the St. Ambrose men ap-
peared in the class lists or among the prize-
men. They no longer led the debates at the
Union ; the boat lost place after place on the
river ; the eleven got beaten in all their match-
es. The inaugurators of these changes had
passed away in their turn, and at last a reac-
tion had commenced. The fellows recently
elected, and who were in residence at the
time we write of, were for the most part men
of great attainments, all of them men who had
taken very high honors. The electors natural-
ly enough had chosen them as the most likely
persons to restoi'e, as tutors, the golden days of
the college ; and they had been careful, in the
selection, to confine themselves to very quiet
and studious men, such as were likely to re-
main up at Oxford, passing over men of more
popular manners and active spirits, who would
be sure to flit soon into the world, and be of
little more service to St. Ambrose.

But these were not the men to get any hold
on the fast set who w'ere now in the ascendant.
It was not in the nature of things that they
should understand each other; in fact, they
were hopelessly at war, and the college was get-
ting more and more out of gear in consequence.

What they could do, however, they were do-
ing ; and under their fostering care were gi’ow-
ing up a small set, including most of the schol-
ars, who were likely, as far as they were con-
cerned, to retrieve the college character in the
schools. But they Avere too much like their
tutors — men Avho did little else but read. They
neither wished for, nor were likely to gain, the
slightest influence on the fast set. The best
men among them, too, were diligent readers of
the Ti-acts for the Tunes, and followers of the
able leaders of the High-Church party, which
was then agrowing one ; and this led them, also,
to form such friendships as they made among
out-college men of their OAvn way of thinking —
with High-Churchmen, rather than St. Ambrose
men. So they lived very much to themselves,
and scarcely interfered with the dominant party.

Lastly, there was the boating set, which w^as
beginning to revive in the college, partly from
the natural disgust of any body of young Eng-
lishmen at finding themselves distanced in an
exercise requiring strength and pluck, and part-
ly from the fact that the captain for the time
being was one of the best oars in the university
boat, and also a deservedly popular character.
He was now in his third year of residence, had
won the pair-oar race, and had pulled seven in
the great yearly match with Cambridge, and

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

by constant hard work had managed to carry
the St. Ambrose boat up to the fifth place on
the river. He will be introduced to you, gen-
tle reader, when the proper time comes ; at
present, we are only concerned with a bird’s-
eye view of the college, that you may feel more
or less at home in it. The boating set was not
so separate or marked as the reading set, melt-
ing on one side into, and keeping up more or
less connection with the fast set, and also com-
manding a sort of half-allegiance from most of
the men who belonged to neither of the other
sets. The minor divisions, of which of course
there were many, need not be particularized, as
the above general classification will be enough
for the purposes of this history.

Our hero, on leaving school, had bound him-
self solemnly to write all his doings and thoughts
to the friend whom he had left behind him :
distance and separation were to make no differ-
ence whatever in their friendship. This com-
pact had been made on one of their last even-
ings at Rugby. They were sitting together in
the six-form room, Tom splicing the handle of
a favorite cricket bat, and Arthur reading a
volume of Raleigh’s works. The Doctor had
lately been alluding to the “ History of the
World,” and had excited the curiosity of the
active-minded among his pupils about the great
navigator, statesman, soldier, author, the fine
gentleman. So Raleigh’s works were seized on
by various voracious young readers, and carried
out of the school library ; and Arthur was now
deep in avolume of the “Miscellanies, ’’curled up
on a corner of the sofa. Presently, Tom heard
something between a groan and a protest, and,
looking up, demanded explanations ; in answer
to which, Arthur, in a voice half furious and
half fearful, read out :

“And be sure of this, thou shalt never find
a friend in thy young years whose conditions
and qualities will please thee after thou comest
to more discretion and judgment ; and then all
thou givest is lost, and all wherein thou shalt
trust such an one will be discovered.”

“You don’t mean that’s Raleigh’s?”

“ Yes ; here it is, in his first letter to his
son.”

“What a cold-blooded old Philistine,” said
Tom.

“But it can’t be true, do you think?” said
Arthur.

And, in short, after some personal reflections
on Sir Walter, they then and there resolved
that, so far as they were concerned, it was not,
could not, and should not be true ; that they
W'ould remain faithful the same to each other,
and the greatest friends in the world, through I
know not what separations, trials, and catastro-
phes. And for the better insuring this result, a
correspondence, regular as the recurring months,
was to be maintained. It had already lasted
through the long vacation and up to Christmas
without sensibly dragging, though Tom’s letters
had been something of the shortest in Novembei-,
when he had had lots of shooting, and two days

a week with the hounds. Now, however, having
fairly got to Oxford, he determined to make up
for all short-comings. His first letter from col-
lege, taken in connection Avith the previous
sketch of the place, will probably accomplish
the work of introduction better than any detail-
ed account by a third party ; and it is therefore
given here verbatim :

“ St. Ambrose, Oxford, February, 184 — .

“My dear Geordie, — According to prom-
ise, I write to tell you how I get on up here,
and what sort of a place Oxford is. Of course,
I don’t know much about it yet, having been
only up some two weeks ; but you shall have
my first impressions.

“ Well, first and foremost, it’s an awfully idle
place; at any rate, for us freshmen. Fancy
now. I am in twelve lectures a week of an
hour each — Greek Testament, first book of He-
rodotus, second .iEneid, and first book of Euclid !
There’s a treat ! Two hours a day ; all over
by twelve, or one at latest ; and no extra work at
all in the shape of copies of verses, themes, or
other exercises.

“I think sometimes I’m back in the loAver
fifth ; for we’ don’t get through more than we
used to do there ; and if you were to hear the
men construe, it would make your hair stand
on end. Where on earth can they have come
from ? unless they blunder on purpose, as I often
think. Of course, I never look at'a lecture be-
fore I go in ; I know it all nearly by heart, so
it would be sheer waste of time. I hope I shall
take to reading something or other by myself;
but you know I never was much of a hand at
sapping, and, for the present, the light work
suits me well enough, for there’s plenty to see
and learn about this place.

“We keep very gentlemanly hours. Chapel
every morning at eight, and evening at seven.
You must attend once a day, and twice on Sun-
days— at least, that’s the rule of our college —
and be in gates by twelve o’clock at night. Be-
sides which, if you’re a decently steady felloAV,
you ought to dine in hall perhaps four days a
week. Hall is at five o’clock. And now you
have the sum total. All the rest of your time
you may just do what you like with.

“ So much for our work and hours. Now for
the place. Well, it’s a grand old place, certain-
ly ; and I dare say, if a fellow goes straight in
it, and gets creditably through his three years,
he may end by loving it as much as we do the
old school-house and quadrangle at Rugby.
Our college is a fair specimen : a venerable old
front of crumbling stone fronting the street, into
which two or three other colleges look also.
Over the gateway is a large room, where the
college examinations go on, when there are any ;
and, as you enter, you pass the porter’s lodge,
where resides our janitor, a bustling little man
with a pot belly, Avhose business it is to put
dowm the time at which the men come in at
night, and to keep all discommonsed tradesmen,
stray dogs, and bad characters generally, out of
the college.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ The large quadrangle into which you come
first is bigger than ours at Rugby, and a much
more solemn and sleepy sort of a place, with its
gables and old mullioned windows. One side
is occupied by the hall and chapel ; the princi-
pal’s house takes up half another side ; and the
rest is divided into staircases, on each of which
are six or eight sets of rooms, inhabited by us
under-graduates, with here and there a tutor or
fellow dropped down among us (in the first-floor
rooms, of course), not exactly to keep order, but
to act as a sort of ballast. This quadrangle is
the show part of the college, and is generally
respectable and quiet, which is a good deal
more than can be said for the inner quadrangle,
which you get at through a passage leading out
of the other. The rooms ain’t half so large or
good in the inner quad ; and here’s where all
v/e freshmen live, besides a lot of tlie older un-
der-graduates who don’t care to change their
rooms. Only one tutor has rooms here ; and I
should think, if he’s a reading man, it won’t be
long before he clears out ; for all sorts of high
jinks go on on the grass-plot, and the row on
the staircases is often as bad, and not half so
respectable, as it used to be in the middle pas-
sage in the last week of the half-year.

“My rooms are what they call garrets, right
up in the roof, with a commanding view of col-
lege tiles and chimney-pots, and of houses at
the back. No end of cats, both college Toms
and strangers, haunt the neighborhood, and I
am rapidly learning cat-talking from them ; but
I’m not going to stand it — I don’t want to know
cat-talk. The college Toms are protected by
the statutes, I believe ; but I’m going to buy an
air-gun for the benefit of the strangers. My
rooms are pleasant enough, at the top of the
kitchen staircase, and separated from all man-
kind by a great, iron-clamped, outer door, my
oak, which I sport when I go out or want to be
quiet; sitting-room eighteen by twelve, bed-
room twelve by eight, and a little cupboard for
the scout.

“Ah, Geordie, the scout is an institution!
Fancy me waited upon and valeted by a stout
party in black, of quiet, gentlemanly manners,
like the benevolent father in a comedy. He
takes the deepest interest in all my possessions
and proceedings, and is evidently used to good
society, to judge by the amount of crockery and
glass, wines, liquors, and grocery, which he
thinks indispensable for my due establishment.
He has also been good enough to recommend
to me many tradesmen who are ready to supply
these articles in any quantities ; each of whom
has been here already a dozen times, cap in
hand, and vowing that it is quite immaterial
when I pay — which is very kind of them ; but,
Avith the highest respect for friend Perkins (my
scout) and his obliging friends, I shall make
some inquiries before ‘ letting in ’ with any
of them. He waits on me in hall, where we
go in full fig of cap and gown at five, and get
very good dinners, and cheap enough. It is
rather a ■ fine old room, with a good, arched.

black oak ceiling and high panelling, hung
round with pictures of old swells, bishops and
lords chiefly, who have endowed the college in
some way, or at least have fed here in times gone
by, and for whom, ‘ caeterisque benefactoribus
nostris,’ we daily give thanks in a long Latin
grace, which one of the under-graduates (I
think it must be) goes and rattles out at the end
of the high table, and then comes down again
from the dais to his own place. No one feeds
at the high table except the dons and the gen-
tlemen-commoners, who are under-graduates in
velvet caps and silk gowns. Why they Avear
these instead of cloth and serge I haven’t yet
made out — I believe it is because they pay
double fees ; but they seem uncommonly Avretch-
ed up at the high table, and I should think
Avould sooner pay double to come to the other
end of the hall.

“ The chapel is a quaint little place, about
the size of the chancel of Lutterworth Church.
It just holds us all comfortably. The attendance
is regular enough, but I don’t think the men care
about it a bit in general. Several I can see bring
in Euclids and other lecture-books, and the serv-
ice is gone through at a great pace. I couldn’t
think at first why some of the men seemed so
uncomfortable and stiff about the legs at the
morning service, but I find that they are the hunt-
ing set, and come in with pea-coats over their
pinks, and trowsers oA'er their leather breeches
and top-boots ; which accounts for it. There
are a few others who seem very devout, and bow
a good deal, and turn towards the altar at differ-
ent parts of the service. These are of the Oxford
High-Church school, I believe ; but I shall soon
find out more about them. On the whole, I
feel less at home at present, I am sorry to say,
in the chapel, than anywhere else.

“I was very nearly forgetting a great institu-
tion of the college, which is the buttery-hatch,
just opposite the hall-door. Here abides the fat
old butler (all the sen'ants at St. Ambrose’s are
portly), and serves out limited bread, butter, and
cheese, and unlimited beer brewed by himself,
for an hour in the morning, at noon, and again
at supper-time. Your scout alw'ays fetches you
a pint or so on each occasion, in case you should
want it, and if you don’t, it falls to him ; but I
can’t say that my fellow gets much, for I am
naturally a thirsty soul, and can not often resist
the malt myself, coming up, as it does, fresh and
cool, in one of the silver tankards, of which Ave
seem to haA-e an endless supply.

“ I spent a day or two in the first week, before
I got shaken doAvn into my place here, in going
round and seeing the other colleges, and finding
out Avhat great men had been at each (one got n
taste for that sort of work from the Doctor, and
I’d nothing else to do). Well, I was never
more interested: fancy ferreting out Wycliffe,
j the Black Prince, our friend Sir Walter Raleigh,
j Pym, Hampden, Land, Ireton, Butler, and Ad-
I dison, in one afternoon. I Avalked about two
' inches taller in my trencher-cap after it. Per-
' haps I may be going to make dear friends Avith

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

some fellow who will change the history of Eng-
land. Why shouldn’t I? There must have
been freshmen once who were chums of Wyc-
liffe of Queen’s, or Raleigh of Oriel. I mooned
up and down the High Street, staring at all the
young faces in caps, and wondering which of
them would turn out great generals, or states-
men, or poets. Some of them will, of course,
for there must be a dozen at least, I should think,
in every generation of under-graduates, who will
have a good deal to say to the ruling and guid-
ing of the British nation before they die.

“But, after all, the river is the feature of
Oxford, to my mind — a glorious stream, not
five minutes’ walk from the colleges, broad
enough in most places for three boats to row
abreast. I expect I shall take to boating fu-
riously : I have been down the river three or
four times already with some other freshmen,
and it is glorious exercise ; that I can see,
though we bungle and cut crabs desperately at
present.

“Here’s a long yarn I’m spinning for you;
and I dare say, after all, you say it tells you
nothing, and you’d rather have twenty lines
about the men, and what they’re thinking about,
and the meaning and inner life of the place, and
all that. Patience, patience ! I don’t know
any thing about it myself yet, and haAX only
had time to look at the shell, which is a very
handsome and stately affair ; you shall have
the kernel, if I ever get at it, in due time.

' “ And now write me a long letter directly,
and tell me about the Doctor, and who are in
the Sixth, and how the house goes on, and what
sort of an eleven there’ll be, and what you are
all doing and thinking about. Come up here
and try for a scholarship ; I’ll take you in and
show you the lions. Remember me to all old
friends. Ever yours affectiojiately, T. B.”

CHAPTER II.

A now ox THE EIVEE.

Within a day or two of the penning of this
celebrated epistle, which created quite a sensa-
tion in the Sixth-form room as it went the round
after tea, Tom realized one of the objects of his
young Oxford ambition, and succeeded in em-
barking on the river in a skiff by himself, with
such results as are nov/ to be described. He
had already been down several times in pair-oar
and four-oar boats, with an old oar to pull stroke,
and another to steer and coach the young idea,
but he was not satisfied with these essays. He
could not believe that he was such a bad oar as
the old hands made him out to be, and thought
that it must be the fault of the other freshmen
Avho were learning with him that the boat made
so little way and rolled so much. He had
been such a proficient in all the Rugby games,
that he couldn’t realize the fact of his unreadi-
ness in a boat. Pulling looked like a simple
thing enough — much easier than tennis ; and he

had made a capital start at the latter game, and
been highly complimented by the marker after
his first hour in the little court. He forgot that
cricket and fives are capital training for tennis,
but that rowing is a specialty, of the rudiments
of which he was wholly ignorant. And so, in
full confidence that, if he could only have a turn
or two alone, he should not only satisfy him-
self, but every body else, that he was a heav-
en-born oar, he refused all offers of companion-
ship, and started on the afternoon of a fine Feb-
ruary day down to the boats for his trial trip.
He had watched his regular companions well out
of college, and gave them enough start to make
sure that they would be off before he himself
could arrive at the St. Ambrose’s dressing-room
at Hall’s, and chuckled, as he came within sight
of the river, to see the freshmen’s boat, in which
he generally performed, go plunging away past
the university barge, keeping three different times
with four oars, and otherwise demeaning itself
so as to become an object of mirthful admiration
to all beholders.

Tom was punted across to Hall’s in a state of
great content, which increased when, in answer
to his casual inquiry, the managing man inform-
ed him that not a man of his college was about
the place. So he ordered a skiff with as much
dignity and coolness as he could command, and
hastened up stairs to dress. He appeared again,
carrying his boating coat and cap. They were
quite new, so he would not wear them : nothing
about him should betray the freshman on this
daj', if he could help it.

“ Is my skiff ready ?”

“ All right, sir ; this way, sir,” said the mana-
ger, conducting him to a good, safe-looking craft.
“ Any gentleman going to steer, sir?”

“ No,” said Tom, superciliously ; “ you may
take out the rudder.”

“ Going quite alone, sir ? Better take one
of our boys — find you a very light one. Here,
Bill!” — and he turned to summons a juA'enile
waterman to take charge of our hero.

“Take out the rudder, do you hear?” inter-
rupted Tom. “ I won’t have a steerer.”

“ Well, sir, as you please,” said the manager,
proceeding to remove the degrading appendage.

‘ ‘ The river’s rather high, please to remember,
sir. You must mind the mill-stream at Iflfley
Lock. I suppose you can swim ?”

“Yes, of course,” said Tom, settling himself
on his cushion. “Now shove her off.”

The next moment he was well out in the
stream, and left to his own resources. He got
his sculls out successfully enough, and, though
feeling by no means easy on his seat, proceeded
to pull very deliberately past the barges, stop-
ping his sculls in the air to feather accurately,
in the hopes of deceiving spectators into the
belief that he was an old hand just going out
for a gentle paddle. The manager watched
him for a minute, and turned to his work with
an aspiration that he might not come to grief.

But no thought of grief was on Tom’s mind
as he dropped gently down, impatient for the

TOM BEOWN AT OXTOED.

time when he should pass the mouth of the Cher-
well, and so, having no longer critical eyes to
fear, might put out his whole strength, and give
himself at least, if not the world, assurance of
a waterman.

The day was a very fine one, a bright sun
shining, and a nice fresh breeze blowing across
the stream, but not enough to rutile the water
seriously. Some heavy storms up Gloucester-
shire way had cleared the air, and swollen the
stream at the same time ; in fact, the river was
as full as it could be without overflowing its
banks — a state in which, of all others, it is the
least safe for boating experiments. Fortunate-
ly in those days there were no outriggers. Even
the racing skiffs were comparatively safe craft,
and would now be characterized as tubs ; while
the real tubs (in one of the safest of which the
prudent manager had embarked our hero) were
of such build that it required considerable in-
genuity actually to upset them.

If any ordinary amount of bungling could
have done it, Tom’s voyage would have termin-
ated within a hundred yards of the Cherwell.
While he had been sitting quiet and merely pad-
dling, and almost letting the stream carry him
down, the boat had trimmed well enough ; but
now, taking a long breath, he leaned forward
and dug his sculls into the water, pulling them
through with all his strength. The consequence
of this feat was that the handles of the sculls
came into violent collision in the middle of the
boat, the knuckles of his right hand were bark-
ed, his left scull unshipped, and the head of his
skiff almost blown round by the wind before he
could restore order on board.

“ Never mind ; try again,” thought he, after
the first sensation of disgust had passed off, and
a glance at the shore showed him that there
were no witnesses. “Of course, I forgot, one
hand must go over' the other. It might have
happened to any one. Let me see, which hand
shall I keep uppermost: the left, that’s the

weakest.” And away he went again, keeping
his newly-acquired fact painfully in mind, and
so avoiding farther collision amidships for four
or five strokes. But, as in other sciences, the
giving of undue prominence to one fact brings
others inexorably on the head of the student to
avenge his neglect of them, so it happened with
Tom, in his practical study of the science of
rowing, that by thinking of his hands he forgot
his seat, and the necessity of trimming properly.
Whereupon the old tub began to rock fearful-
ly, and the next moment he missed the water
altogether with his right scull, and subsided
backward, not without struggles, into the bot-
tom of the boat ; while the half-stroke which
he had pulled with his left hand sent her head
well into the bank.

Tom picked himself up, and settled himself
on his bench again, a sadder and a wiser man,
as the truth began to dawn upon him that pull-
ing, especially sculling, does not, like reading
and writing, come by nature. However, he ad-
dressed himself manfully to his task ; savage

indeed, and longing to drive a hole in the bot-
tom of the old tub, but as resolved as ever to
get to Sandford and back before hall-time, or
perish in the attempt.

He shoved himself off the bank, and, warned
by his last mishap, got out into mid-stream,
and there, moderating his ardor, and contenting
himself with a slow and steady stroke, was pro-
gressing satisfactorily, and beginning to recover
his temper, when a loud shout startled him ;
and, looking over his shoulder at the immi-
nent risk of an upset, he beheld the fast sailer
the “Dart,” close-hauled on a wind, and al-
most aboard of him. Utterly ignorant of what
was the right thing to do, he held on his course,
and passed close under the bows of the minia-
ture cutter, the steersman having jammed his
helm hard down, shaking her in the wind, to
prevent running over the skiff, and solacing
himself with pouring maledictions on Tom
and his craft, in which the man who had
hold of the sheets, and the third, who was
lounging in the bows, heartily joined. Tom
was out of ear-shot before he had collected
vituperation enough to hurl back at them, and
was, moreover, already in the difficult naviga-
tion of the Gut, where, notwithstanding all his
efforts, he again ran aground ; but, with this ex-
ception, he arrived without other mishap at
Iffley, where he lay on his sculls with much sat-
isfaction, and shouted, “Lock — lock!”

The lock-keeper appeared to the summons,
but, instead of opening the gates, seized a long
boat-hook and rushed towards our hero, calling
on him to mind the mill-stream, and pull his
right-hand scull ; notwithstanding which warn-
ing, Tom was within an ace of drifting past the
entrance to the lock, in which case assuredly
his boat, if not he, had never returned whole.
However, the lock-keeper managed to catch the
stern of his skiff with the boat-hook, and drag
him back into the proper channel, and then
opened the lock-gates for him. Tom congratu-
lated himself, as he entered the lock, that there
were no other boats going through with him ;
but his evil star was in the ascendant, and all
things, animate and inanimate, seemed to be
leagued together to humiliate him. As the wa-
ter began to fall rapidly, he lost his hold of
the chain, and the tub instantly drifted across
the lock, no's was in imminent danger of stick-
ing and breaking her back, when the lock-keep-
er again came to the rescue with his boat-hook ;
and, guessing the state of the case, did not quit
him until he had safely shoved him and his
boat well out into the pool below, with an ex-
hortation to mind and go outside of the barge
which was coming up,

Tom started on the latter half of his outward
voyage with the sort of look which Cato must
have worn when he elected the losing side, and
all the gods went over to the winning one. But
his previous struggles had not been thrown away,
and he managed to keep the right side of the
barge, turn the corner without going aground,
and zigzag down Kennington reach, slowly in-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

deed, and witli much labor, but at any rate safe-
ly. Rejoicing in this feat, he stopped at the
island and recreated himself with a glass of
beer, looking now hopefully towards Sandford,
which lay within easy distance, now upwards
again along the reach which he had just over-
come, and solacing himself with the remem-
brance of a dictum, which he had heard from a
great authority, that it was always easier to steer
up stream than down, from which he argued
that the worst part of his trial trip was now over.

Presently he saw a skiff turn the corner at
the top of the Kennington reach, and, resolving
in his mind to get to Sandford beforo the new-
comer, paid for his beer, and betook himself
again to his tub. He got pretty well off, and,
the island shutting out his unconscious rival from
his view, worked away at first under the pleas-
ing delusion that he was holding his own. But
he was soon undeceived, for in monstrously
short time the pursuing skiff showed round the
corner, and bore down on him. He never re-
laxed his efforts, but could not help watching
the enemy as he came up with him hand over
hand, and envying the perfect ease with which
he seemed to be pulling his long steady stroke,
and the precision with which he steered, scarce-
ly ever casting a look over his shoulder. He
was hugging the Berkshire side himself as the
other skiff passed him, and thought he heard the
sculler say something about keeping out, and
minding the small lasher ; but the noise of wa-
ters and his own desperate efforts prevented his
heeding, or indeed hearing the warning plainly.
In another minute, however, he heard plainly
enough most energetic shouts behind him ; and,
turning his head over his right shoulder, saw the
man who had just passed him backing his skiff
rapidly up stream towards him. The next mo-
ment he felt the bows of his boat whirl round,
the old tub grounded for a moment, and then,
turning over on her side, shot him out on to the
planking of the steep descent into the small lash-
er. He grasped at the boards, but they were
too slippery to hold, and the rush of water was
too strong for him, and, rolling him over and
over, like a piece of drift-wood, plunged him
into the pool below.

After the first moment of astonishment and
fright was over, Tom left himself to the stream,
holding his breath hard, and paddling gently
with his hands, feeling sure that, if he could only
hold on, he should come to the surface sooner
or later; which accordingly happened after a
somewhat lengthy submersion.

His first impulse on rising to the surface, af-
ter catching his breath, was to strike out for the
shore, but, in the act of doing so, he caught sight
of the other skiff coming stern foremost down
the deep descent after him, and he trod the wa-
ter and drew in his breath to watch. Down she
came, cs straight as an arrow, into the tumult
below ; the sculler sitting upright, and holding
his sculls steadily in the water. For a moment
she seemed to be going under, but righted her-
self, and glided swiftly into the still water ; and

then the sculler cast a hasty and anxious glance
round, till his eyes rested on our hero’s half-
drowned head.

“ Oh, there you are !” he said, looking much
relieved ; “ all right, I hope. Not, hurt, eh ?”

“No, thankee; all right, I believe,” answer-
ed Tom. “ What shall I do ?”

“ Swim ashore ; I’ll look after your boat.”
So Tom took the advice, swam ashore, and there
stood dripping and watching the other as ho
righted the old tub, which was floating quietly
bottom upward, little the worse for the mishap,
and no doubt, if boats can wish, earnestly desir-
ing in her wooden mind to be allowed to go qui-
etly to pieces then and there, sooner than be res-
cued to be again intrusted to the guidance of
freshmen.

The tub having been brought to the bank, the
stranger started again, and collected the sculls
and bottom-boards, which were floating about
here and there in the pool, and also succeeded
in making salvage of Tom’s coat, the pockets of
which held his watch, purse, and cigar-case.
These he brought to the bank, and, delivering
them over, inquired whether there was any thing
else to look after.

“ Thank you, no ; nothing but my cap. Nev-
er mind it. It’s luck enough not to have lost
the coat,” said Tom, holding up the dripping
garment to let the water run out of the arms
and pocket-holes, and then wringing it as well
as he could. “ At any rate,” thought he, “ I
needn’t be afraid of its looking too new'- any
more.”

The stranger put off again, and made one
more round, searching for the cap and any thing
else which he might have overlooked, but with-
out success. While he was doing so, Tom had
time to look him well over, and see what sort
of man had come to his rescue. He hardly
knew at the time the full extent of his obliga-
tion— at least if this sort of obligation is to be
reckoned not so much by the service actually
rendered, as by the risk encountered to be able
to render it. There were probably not three
men in the university who w'ould have dared to
shoot the lasher in a skiff in its then state, for
it was in those times a really dangerous place;
and Tom himself had had an extraordinary es-
cape ; for, as Miller, the St. Ambrose coxswain,
remarked on hearing the story, “No one who
w^asn’t born to be hung could have rolled down
it without knocking his head against something
Rard, and going down like lead when he got to
the bottom.”

He was very well satisfied with his inspection.
The other man was evidently a year or two old-
er than himself, his figure was more set, and he
had stronger whiskers than are generally grown
at twenty. He was somewhere about five feet
ten in height, very deep-chested, and with long
powerful arms and hands. There was no deny-
ing, however, that at the first glance he was an
ugly man ; he was marked with small-pox, had
large features, high cheek bones, deeply-set eyes,
and a very long chin ; and had got the trick

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

which many underhung men have of compress-
ing his upper lip. Nevertheless, there was that
in his face which hit Tom’s fancy, and made
him anxious to know his rescuer better. He
had an instinct that good was to be gotten out
of him. So he was very glad when the search
was ended, and the stranger came to the bank,
shipped his sculls, and jumped out with the
painter of his skiff in his hand, which he pro-
ceeded to fasten to an old stump, while he re-
marked :

“ I’m afraid the cap’s lost.”

“It doesn’t matter the least. Thank you for
coming to help me ; it was very kind indeed,
and more than I expected. Don’t they say that
one Oxford man will never save another from
drowning unless they have been introduced?”
“I don’t know,” replied the other; “are
you sure you’re not hurt?”

“Yes, quite,” said Tom, foiled in what he
considered an artful plan to get tlie stranger to
introduce himself.

“Then we’re very well out of it,” said the
other, looking at the steep descent into the
lasher, and the rolling, tumbling rush of the
water below.

“Indeed we are,” said Tom ; “but how in
the world did you manage not to upset ?”

“I hardly know myself — I have shipped a
good deal of water, you see. Perhaps I ought
to have jumped out on the bank and come
across to you, leaving my skiff in the river, for
if I had upset I couldn’t have helped you much.
However, I followed my instinct, which was to
come the quickest way. I thought, too, that if
I could manage to get down in tlie boat I should
be of more use. I’m very glad I did it,” he
added, after a moment’s pause; “I’m really
proud of having come down that place.”

“ So ain’t I,” said Tom with a laugh, in
which the other joined.

“But now you’re getting chilled,” and he
turned from the lasher and looked at Tom’s
chattering jaws.

“ Oh, it’s nothing. I’m used to being wet.”
“But you may just as well be comfortable if
you can. Here’s this rough jersey which I
use instead of a coat ; pull off that wet cotton
affair, and put it on, and then we’ll get to work,
for we have plenty to do.”

After a little persuasion 'Tom did as he was
bid, and got into the great woolen garment,
which was very comforting ; and then the two
set about getting their skiffs back into the main ’
stream. This was comparatively easy as to
the lighter skiff, which was soon baled out and
hauled by main force on to the bank, carried
across and launched again. The tub gave them
much more trouble, for she was quite full of
water and very heavy ; but after twenty minutes
or so of hard work, during which the mutual
respect of the laborers for the strength and wil-
lingness of each other was much increased, she
also lay in the main stream, leaking consider-
ably, but otherwise not much the worse for her
adventure.

“Now what do you mean to do?” said the
stranger. “ I don’t think you can pull home in
her. One doesn’t know how much she may be
damaged. She may sink in the lock, or play
any prank.”

“But what am I to do with her?”

“Oh, you can leave her at Sandford and walk
up, and send one of Hall’s boys for her. Or,
if you like, I will tow her up beliind my skiff.”

“ Won’t your skiff carry two ?”

“Yes; if you like to come. I’ll take you;
but you must sit very quiet.”

“ Can’t we go down to Sandford first and have
a glass of ale ? What time is it ? the water
has stopped my watch.”

‘ ‘ A quarter-past three. I have about twenty
minutes to spare.”

“Come along, then,” said Tom; “but will
you let me pull your skiff down to Sandford ? I
resolved to pull to Sandford to-day, and don’t
like to give it up.”

“ By all means, if you like,” said the other,
with a smile ; “jump in, and I’ll walk along the
bank.”

“Thank you,” said Tom, hurrying into the
skiff, in which he completed the remaining
quarter of a mile, while the owner walked by
the side watching him.

They met on the bank at the little inn by
Sandford lock, and had a glass of ale, over which
Tom confessed that it was the first time he had
ever navigated a skiff by himself, and gave a de-
tailed account of his adventures, to the great
amusement of his companion. And by the
time they rose to go, it. was settled, at Tom’s
earnest request, that he should pull the sound
skiff up, while his companion sat in the stern
and coached him. The other consented very
kindly, merely stipulating that he himself should
take the sculls, if it should prove that Tom
could not pull them up in time for hall dinner.
So they started, and took the tub in tow when
they came up to it. Tom got on famously
under his new tutor, who taught him to get for-
Avard, and open his knees properly, and throw
his Aveight on to the sculls at the beginning of
the stroke. He managed even to get into Iffley
lock on the Avay up without fouling the gates,
and Avas then and there complimented on his
progress. Whereupon, as they sat, while the
lock filled, Tom poured out his thanks to his
tutor for his instruction, Avhich had been given
so judiciously that, Avhile he Avas conscious of
improving at every stroke, he did not feel that
the other Avas asserting any superiorit}' OA'er
him ; and so, though more humble than/at the
most disastrous period of his doAvnAvard voyage,
he Avas getting into a better temper ev'ery min-
ute.

It is a great pity that some of our instructors
in more important matters than sculling will
not take a leaf out of the same book. Of
course, it is more satisfactory to one’s OAvn self-
loA’e to make eA^ery one who comes to one to.
learn feel that he is a fool, and Ave wise men ;
but, if our object is to teach Avell and usefully

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

what we know ourselves, there can not be a
worse method. No man, however, is likely to
adopt it, so long as he is conscious that he has
any thing himself to learn from his pupils; and
as soon as he has arrived at the conviction that
they can teach him nothing — that it is hence-
forth to he all give and no take — the sooner he
throws up his office of teacher, the better it will
be for himself, his pupils, and his country,
whose sons he is misguiding.

On their way up, so intent were they on their
own work, that it was not until shouts of “Hol-
lo, Brown ! how did you get there ? Why, you
said you wei*e not going down to-day,” greeted
them just above the Gut, that they were aware
of the presence of the freshmen’s four-oar of
St. Ambrose College, which had with some
trouble succeeded in overtaking them.

“ I said I wasn’t going down with you,''
shouted Tom, grinding away harder than ever,
that they might witness and wonder at his
prowess.

“Oh, I dare say ! Whose skiff are you tow-
ing up ? I believe you’ve been upset.”

Tom made no reply, and the four-oar floun-
dered on ahead.

“Are you at St. Ambrose’s?” asked his sit-
ter, after a minute.

“Yes; that’s my treadmill, that four-oar.
I’ve been down in it almost every day since I
came up, and very poor fun it is. So I thought
to-day I would go on my own hook, and see if
I couldn’t make a better hand of it. And I
have too, I kn<^w, thanks to you.”

The other made no remark, but a little shade
came over his face. He had had no chance of
making out Tom’s college, as the new cap
which would have betrayed him had disappear-
ed in the lasher. He himself wore a glazed
straw hat, which was of no college ; so that up
to this time neither of them had known to what
college the other belonged.

When they landed at Hall’s, Tom was at
once involved in a wrangle with the manager as
to the amount of damage done to the tub ;
which the latter refused to assess before he knew
what had happened to it ; while our hero vig-
orously, and with reason, maintained that, if he
knew his business, jt could not matter what had
happened to the boat. There she was, and he
must say whether she was better or worse, or
how much worse than when she started. In the
middle of which dialogue his new acquaintance,
touching his arm, said, “You can leave my jer-
sey with your own things ; I shall get it to-mpr-
row,” and then disappeared.

Tom, when he had come to terms with his
adversary, ran up stairs, expecting to find the
other, and meaning to tell his name, and find
out who it was that had played the good Samar-
itan by him. He was much annoyed W'hen he
found the coast clear, and dressed in a grumbling
humor. “I wonder why he should have gone off
■so quick. He might just as well have staid and
walked up with me,” thought he. “Let me
see, though ; didn’t he say I was to leave his
2

jersey in our room with my own things ? Wiiy,
perhaps he is a St. Ambrose man himself. But
then he w'ould have told me so, surely. I don’t
remember to have seen his face in chapel or
hall ; but then there are such a lot of new
faces, and he may not sit near me. However,
I mean to find him out before long, whoever he
may be.” With which resolve Tom crossed
in the punt into Christchurch meadow and
strolled college-ward, feeling that he had had
a good hard afternoon’s exercise, ^nd was much
the better for it. He might have satisfied his
curiosity at once by simply asking the manager
who it was that had arrived with him ; and this
occurred to him before he got home, whereat he
felt satisfied, but would not go back then, as it
was so near hall-time. He would be sure to
remember it the first thing to-morrow.

As it happened, however, he had not so long
to wait for the information which he needed ;
for scarcely had he sat down in hall and order-
ed his dinner, when he caught sight of his boat-
ing acquaintance, wdio walked in habited in a
gown which Tom took for a scholar’s. He took
his seat at a little table in the middle of the
hall, -near the bachelors’ table, but quite away
from the rest of the under-graduates, at w'hich
sat four or five other men in similar gowns.
He either did not or would not notice the looks
of recognition which Tom kept firing at him
until he had taken his seat.

“ Who is that man that has just come in, do
you know ?” said Tom to his next neighbor, a
second-term man.

“Which ?” said the other, looking up.

“ That one over at the little table in the mid-
dle of the hall, with the dark whiskers. There,
he has just turned father from us, and put his
arm on the table.”

“ Oh, his name is Hardy.”

“ Do you know him?”

“No; I don’t think any body does. They
say he is a clever fellow, but a very queer one.”
“Why does he sit at that table ?”

“He is one of our servitors; they all sit
there together.”

“ Oh,” said Tom, not much wiser for the in-
formation, but resolved to waylay Hardy as
soon as the hall was over, and highly delighted
to find that they were, after all, of the same col-
lege ; for he had already begun to find out that,
however friendly you may be with out-college
men, you must live chiefly with those of your
own. But now his scout brought his dinner,
and he fell to with the appetite of a freshman
on his ample commons.

CHAPTER III.

A BREAKFAST AT DRYSDALe’s.

No man in St. Ambrose College gave such
breakfasts as Drysdale. Not the great heavy
spreads for thirty or forty, which came once or
twice a term, when every thing was supplied out

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

of the college kitchen, and you had to ask leave [
of the Dean before you could have it at all. In
those ponderous feasts the most hum-drum of i
under-graduate kind might rival the most artist-
ic, if lie could only pay his battel-bill, or get
credit with the cook. But the daily morning
meal, when even gentlemen-commoners were
limited to two hot dishes out of the kitchen, this
was Drysdale’a forte. Ordinary men left the
matter in the hands of scouts, and were content
with the ever-recurring buttered toast and eggs,
with a dish of broiled ham, or something of the
sort, and marmalade and bitter ale to finish
with ; but Drysdale was not an ordinary man,
as you felt in a moment when you went to
breakfast with him for the first time.

The staircase on which he lived was inhabit-
ed, except in the garrets, by men in the fast
set, and he and three others, who had an equal
aversion to solitary feeding, had established a
breakfast-club, in which, thanks to Drysdale’s
genius, real scientific gastronomy was cultiva-
ted. Every morning the boy from the Weirs
arrived with freshly-caught gudgeon, and now
and then an eel or trout, which the scouts on
tlie staircase had learned to fry delicately in
oil. Fresh water-cresses came in the same
basket, and the college kitchen furnished a
spitch-cocked chicken or grilled turkey’s leg.
In the season there were plover’s eggs ; or, at
the worst, there was a dainty omelette ; and a
distant baker, famed for his light rolls and high
charges, sent in the bread — the common do-
mestic college loaf being of course out of the
question for any one with the slightest preten-
sions to taste, and fit only for the perquisite of
scouts. Then there Avould be a deep Yorkshire
])ie, or reservoir of potted game, as a piece de
resistance, and three or four sorts of preserves;
and a large cool tankard of cider or ale-cup to
finish up with, or soda-water and maraschino
for a change. Tea and coffee were there, in-
deed, but merely as a compliment to those re-
spectable beverages, for they were rarely touch-
ed by the breakfast-eaters of No. 3 staircase.
Pleasant young gentlemen they were on No. 3
staircase ; I mean the ground and first-floor-
men who formed the breakfast-club, for the gar-
rets were nobodies. Three out of the four were
gentlemen-commoners, with allowances of £500
a year at least each ; and, as they treated their
allowances as pocket-money, and were all in
their first year, ready money was plenty and
credit good, and they might have had potted
hippopotamus for breakfast if they had chosen
to order it, which they would most likely have
done if they had thought of it.

Two out of the three were the sons of rich
men who had made their own fortunes, and
sent their sons to St. Ambrose’s because it was
very desirable that the young gentlemen should
make good connections. In fact, the fathers
looked upon the university as a good invest-
ment, and gloried much in hearing their sons
talk fiimiliarly in the vacations of their dear
friends Lord Ilarry This and Sir George That.

Drysdale, the third of the set, was the heir of
an old as well as of a rich family, and conse-
quently, having his connection ready made to
his hand, cared little enough with whom he asso-
ciated, provided they were pleasant fellows, and
gave him good food and wines. Ilis whole idea
at present was to enjoy himself as much as pos-
sible ; but he had good manly stuff in him at
the bottom, and, had he fallen into any but the
fast set, would have made a fine fellow, and
done credit to himself and his college.

The fourth man of the breakfast-club, the
Hon. Piers St. Cloud, was in his third year, and
was a very well-dressed, well-mannered, well-
connected young man. His allowance was
small for the set he lived with, but he never
wanted for any thing. He didn’t entertain
much, certainly, but when he did every thing
was in the best possible style. He was very
exclusive, and knew no man in college out of
the fast set ; and of these he addicted himself
chiefly to the society of the rich freshmen, for
somehow the men of his own standing seemed
a little shy of him. But with the freshmen he
Avas ahvays hand and glove, lived in their
rooms, and used their wines, horses, and other
movable property as Ids own. Being a good whist
and billiard player, and not a bad jockey, he man-
aged, in one way or another, to make his young
friends pay well for the honor of his acquaint-
ance; as, indeed, Avhy should they not, at least
those of them who came to college to form eli-
gible connections ; for had not his remote lin-
eal ancestor come over in the ^ame ship with
William the Conqueror? were not all his rela-
tions about the court, as lords and ladies in
Availing, white sticks or black rods, and in the
innei'most of all possible circles of the great
Avorld ; and Avas there a better coat of arms
than he bore in all Burke’s Peerage?

Our hero had met Drysdale at a house in the
country shortly before the beginning of his first
term, and they had rather taken to one anoth-
er. Drysdale had been among his first callers ;
and, as he came out of chapel one morning
shortly after his arrival, Drysdale’s scout came
up to him Avith an invitation to breakfast. So
he went to his OAvn rooms, ordered his commons
to be taken across to No. 3, and followed himself
a feAV minutes afterwards. No one Avas in the
rooms Avhen he arrived, for none of the club had
finished their toilets. Morning chapel AV'as not
meant for, or cultiA'ated by gentlemen-common-
ers ; they paid double chapel fees, in considera-
tion of Avhich, probably, they Avere not expected
to attend so often as the rest of the under-grad-
uates ; at any rate, they didn’t, and no harm
came to them in consequence of their absence.
As Tom entered, a great splashing in an inner
room stopped for a moment, and Drysdale’s
A'oice shouted out that he Avas in his tub, but
Avould be Avith him in a minute. So Tom gave
himself up to the contemplation of the rooms
in Avhich his fortunate acquaintance dwelt ; and
very pleasant rooms they Avere. The large
room, in Avhich the breakfast table Avas laid for

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

five, was lofty and well-proportioned, and pan-
elled with old oak, and the furniture was hand-
some and solid and in keeping with the room.

There were four deep windows high up in
the wall, with cusliioned seats under them, two
looking into the large quadrangle, and two into
the inner one. Outside these windows, Drvs-
dale had rigged up hanging gardens, which
were kept full of flowers by the first nurseiy-
man in Oxford all the year round ; so that even
on this February morning the scent of gardania
and violets pervaded tlic room, and strove
for mastery with the smell of stale tobacco,
which hung about tlie curtains and sofas.
There was a large glass in an oak frame over
the mantel-piece, which was loaded with choice
pipes and cigar cases, and quaint receptacles
for tobacco ; and by the side of the glass hung
small, carved oak frames, containing lists of the
meets of the Heythrop, the Old Berkshire, and
Drake’s hounds for the current week.' There
was a queer assortment of well-framed paint-
ings and engravings on the walls; some of con-
siderable merit, especially some water-color sea-
pieces and engravings from Landseer’s pictures,
mingled with which hung Taglioni and Cerito,
in short petticoats and impossible attitudes ;
Phosphorus Avinning the Derby ; the death of
Grimaldi (the famous steeple-chase horse — not
poor old Joe) ; an American Trotting-match,
and Jem Belcher and Deaf Burke in attitudes of
self-defense. Several tandem and riding-whips,
mounted in heavy silver, and a double-barrelled
gun and fishing-rods, occupied one corner, and
a polished copper cask, holding about five gal-
lons of mild ale, stood in another. In short,
there was plenty of every thing except books —
the literature of the Avorld being represented, so
far as Tom could make out in his short scrutiny,
by a few well-bound but badly used volumes of
classics, with the cribs thereto appertaining,
shoved away into a cupboard Avhich stood half-
open, and contained besides half-emptied decan-
ters, and large pewters, and dog-collars, and
packs of cards, and all sorts of miscellaneous
articles, to servo as an antidote.

Tom had hardly finished his short sinwey,
wlien the door of the bedroom opened, and Drys-
dale emerged in a loose jacket lined with silk,
his velvet cap on his head and otherwise gor-
geously attired. He was a pleasant-looking fel-
low of middle size, with dark hair, and a merry
brown eye with a twinkle in it, wliich spoke well
for his sense of humor ; otherwise his large feat-
ures were rather plain, but he had the look and
manners of a thoroughly well bred gentleman.

His first act, after nodding to Tom, was to
seize on a pewter and resort to the cask in the
corner, from whence he drew a pint or so of the
contents, having, as he said, “‘a whoreson
longing for that poor creature, small beer.’ We
Avefe playing Van- John in Blake’s rooms till
three last night, and he gaA'e us devilled bones
and mulled port. A felloAV can’t enjoy his
breakfast after that Avithout something to cool
his coppers.”

I'd

Tom Avas as yet ignorant of Avhat Van-Jolm
might be, so held his peace, and took a pull at
the beer Avhich the other handed to him ; and
then the scout entered, and received orders to
bring up Jack and the breakfast and not Avait
for any one. In another minute a bouncing
and scrattling Avas heard on the stairs, and a
Avhite bulldog rushed in, a gem in his Avay ; for
his brow Avas broad and massive, his skin Avas
as fine as a lady’s, and his tail taper and near-
ly as thin as a clay pipe. His general look,
and a way he had of going “ snuzzling” about
the calves of strangers, were not pleasant for
nervous people. Tom, hoAvever, Avas used to
dogs, and soon became friends Avith him, Avhich
evidently pleased his host. And then the break-
fast arriA’ed, all smoking, and Avith it the two
other ingenious youths, in velvet caps and far
more gorgeous apparel, so far as colors Avent,
than Drysdale. They Avere introduced to Tom,
w'ho thought tliem someAvhat ordinary and rath-
er loud young gentlemen. One of them re-
monstrated vigorously against the presence of
that confounded dog, and so Jack was sent to
lie doAvn in a corner, and then the four fell to
Avork upon the breakfast.

It Avas a good lesson in gastronomy, but the
results arc scarcely Avorth repeating here. It
is Avonderful, though, how yo.u feel draAvn to a
man Avho feeds you Avell ; and, as Tom’s appe-
tite got less, his liking and respect for his host
undoubtedly increased.

When they had nearly finished, in Avalked the
Honorable Piers, a tall slight man, two or three
years older than the rest of them ; good-looking,
and very Avell and quietly dressed, but Avith a
draAving up of his nostril, and a draAving down
of the corners of his mouth, Avhich set Tom
against him at once. The cool, supercilious
half-nod, moreover, to Avhich he treated our hero
Avhen introduced to him Avas enough to spoil bis
'digestion and hurt his self-love a good deal
more than he Avonld have liked to OAvn.

“Here, Henry,” said the Honorable Piers to
the scout in attendance, seating himself, and in-
specting the half-cleared dishes ; “ Avhat is there
for my breakfast ?”

Henry bustled about, and handed a dish or

tAVO.

“ I don’t Avant these cold things ; haA'en’t you
kept me any gudgeon ?”

“ Why, sir,” said Henry, “ there Avas only tAvo
dozen this moniing, and Mr. Drysdale told me
to cook them all.”

“ To be sure I did,” says Drysdale. “Just
half a dozen for each of us four : they Avere first-
rate. If you can’t get here at half-past nine,
you Avon’t get gudgeon, I can tell you.”

‘•Just go and get me a broil from the kitch-
en,” said the Honorable Piers, Avithout deigning
an ansAA'er to Drysdale.

“ Very sorry, sir; kitchen’s shut by noAA-, sir,”
ansAvered Henry.

“Then go to Hinton’s, and order some cut-
lets.”

“ I say, Henry,” shouted Drysdale 'to there-

TOxM BROWN AT OXFORD.

treating scout ; “ not to my tick, mind ! Put
them down to Mr. St. Cloud.”

Henry seemed to know very well that in that
case he might save himself the trouble of the
journey, and consequently returned to his wait-
ing ; and the Honorable Piers set to work upon
his breakfast without showing any further ill-
temper, certainly, except by the stinging things
which he threw every now and then into the
conversation, for the benefit of each of the others
in turn.

Tom thought he detected signs of coming
hostilities between his host and St. Cloud ; for
Drysdale seemed to prick up his ears and get
combative whenever the other spoke, and lost
no chance of roughing him in his replies. And,
indeed, he was not far wrong ; the fact being
that, during Diysdale’s first term, the other had
lived on him — drinking his wine, smoking his
cigars, driving his dog-cart, and winning his
money ; all which Drysdale, who was, the easi-
est-going and best-tempered fellow in Oxford,
had stood without turning a hair. But St.
Cloud added to these little favors a half-patron-
nizing, lialf-contemptuous manner, which he
used with great success towards some of the other
gentlemen-commoners, whothought it a mark of
high breeding, and the correct thing, but which
Drysdale, who didn’t care three straw's about
know'ing St. Cloud, w'asn’t going to put up with.

However, nothing happened beyond a little
.sparring, and the breakfast things were cleared
away, and the tankards left on the table, and
the company betook themselves to cigars and
easy-chairs. Jack came out of his corner to be
gratified with some of the remnants by his fond
master, and then curled himself up on the sofa
along which Drysdale lounged.

“ What are you going to do to-day, Drys-
dale?” said one of the others. “ I’ve ordered
a leader to be sent on over the bridge, and mean
to drive my dog-cart over, and dine at Abing-
don. Won’t you come ?”

“Who’s going besides?” asked Drysdale.

“ Oh, only St. Cloud and Farley here.
There’s lots of room for a fourth.”

“ No, thank’ee ; teaming’s slow work on the
back seat. Besides, I’ve half promised to go
down in the boat.”

“In the boat!” shouted the other. “Why,
you don’t mean to say you’re going to take to
pulling ?”

“Well, I don’t know ; I rather think I am.
I’m dog-tired of driving and doing the High
Street, and playing cards and billiards all day,
and our boat is likely to be head of the river, I
think.”

“ By Jove ! I should as soon have thought
of your taking to reading, of going to Universi-
ty Sermon,” put in St. Cloud.

“And the boating-men, too,” went on Far-
ley ; “ did you ever see such a set, St. Cloud?
with their everlasting flannels and jerseys, and
hair cropped like prize-fighters.”

“ I’ll bet a guinea there isn’t one of them has
more than £200 a year,” put in Chanter, whose

father could just write his name, and was mak-
ing a colossal fortune by supplying bad iron rails
to the new railway companies.

“ What the devil do I care,” broke in Drys-
dale; “I know they’re a deal more amusing
than you fellows, w'ho can do nothing that don’t
cost pounds.”

“Getting economical!” sneered St. Cloud.

“ Well, I don’t see the fun of tearing one's
heart out, and blistering one’s hands, only to
get abused by that little brute Miller the cox-
swain,” said Farley.

“ Why, you won’t be able to sit straight in
your chair for a month,” said Chanter; “ and
the captain will make you dine at one, and fetch
you out of any body’s rooms, confound his im-
pudence ! whether he knows them or not, at
eleven o’clock every night.”

“ Two cigars a day', and a pint and a half of
liquid,” and Farley inserted his cod-fish face
into the tankard ; “ fancy Drysdale on training
allowance !”

Here a new-comer entered in a bachelor’s
gown, Avho was warmly greeted by the name of
Sanders by Drysdale. St. Cloud and he ex-
changed the coldest possible nods ; and the other
two, taking the office from their mentor, stared
at him through their smoke, and, after a minute
or two’s silence, and a few rude half-whispered
remarks among themselves, went off to play a
game at pyramids till luncheon-time. Sanders
took a cigar which Drysdale offered, and began
asking him about his friends at home, and what
he had been doing in the vacation.

They were evidently intimate, though {Torn
thought that Drysdale didn’t seem quite at his
ease at first, which he wondered at, as San-
ders took his fancy at once. However, eleven
o’clock struck, and Tom had to go off to lec-
ture, where we can not follow him just now,
hut must remain with Drysdale and Sanders,
who chatted on very pleasantly for some twenty
minutes, till a knock came at the door. It was
not till the third summons that Drysdale shout-
ed “ Come in,” with a shrug of his shoulders,
and an impatient kick at the sofa-cushion at his
feet, as though not half pleased at the approach-
ing visit.

Reader! had you not ever a friend a few
years older than yourself, whose good opinion
you were anxious to keep ? A fellow teres at-
que rotundus; who could do every thing better
than you, from Plato and tennis down to sing-
ing a comic song and playing quoits ? If you
have had, wasn’t he always in your rooms or
company whenever any thing happened to show
your little weak points? Sanders, at any rate,
occupied this position towards our young friend
Drysdale, and the latter, much as he liked
Sanders’s company, Avould have prefered it at
any other time than on an idle morning just at
the beginning of term, when the gentlemen-
tradesmen, who look upon under-graduates in
general, and gentlemen-commoners in particu-
lar, as fheir lawful prey, are in the habit of
calling in flocks.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

The new arrival was a tall, florid man, with
a half-servile, half-impudent manner, and a
foreign accent ; dressed in sumptuous costume,
with a velvet-faced coat and a gorgeous plush
waistcoat. Under his arm he carried a large
parcel, which he proceeded to open, and placed
upon a sofa the contents, consisting of a couple
of coats, and three or four waistqoats and pairs
of trowsers. He saluted Sanders with a most
obsequious bow, looked nervously at Jack, who
opened one eye from between his master’s legs
and growled, and then, turning to Drysdale,
asked if he should have the honor of seeing him
try on any of the clothes ?

“No; I can’t be bored with trying them on
now,” said Drysdale; “leave them where they
are.”

Mr. Scliloss would like very much, on his re-
turn to town in a day or two, to be able to as-
sure his principals that Mr. Drysdale’s m-ders
had been executed to his satisfaction. He had
also some very beautiful new stuffs with him,
which he should like to submit to Mr. Drys-
dale, and without more ado began unfolding
cards of the most fabulous plushes and cloths.

Drysdale glanced first at the cards and then
at Sanders, who sat pufHng his cigar, and watch-
ing Schloss’s proceedings with a look not unlike
Jack’s when any one he did not approve of ap-
proached his master.

“ Confound your patterns, Schloss,” said
Drysdale ; “ I tell you I have more things than
I want already.”

“ The large stripe, such as these, is now very
much worn in London,” went on Schloss, with-
out heeding the rebuff, and spreading his cards
on the table.

“D trowsers,” replied Drysdale; “you

seem to think, Schloss, that a fellow has ten
pairs of legs.”

“ Monsieur is pleased to joke,” smiled
Schloss; “but, to be in the mode, gentlemen
must have variety.”

“Well, I won’t order any now, that’s flat,”
said Drysdale.

“ Monsieur will do as he pleases ; but it is
impossible that he should not have some plush
waistcoats; the fabric is only just out, and is
making a sensation.”

“Now look here, Schloss ; will you go if I
order a waistcoat ?”

“ Monsieur is very good ; he sees how taste-
ful these new patterns are.”

“ I wouldn’t be seen at a cock-fight in one
of them ; they’re as gaudy as a salmon-fly,”
said Drysdale, feeling the stuff which the obse-
quious Schloss held out. “But it seems nice
stuff, too,” he went on; “I shouldn’t mind
having a couple of waistcoats of it of this pat-
tern ;” and he chucked across to Schloss a dark
tartan waistcoat which was lying near him.
“ Have you got the stuff in that pattern ?”

“ Ah, no,” said Schloss, gathering up the
waistcoat; “but it shall not hinder. I shall
have at once a loom for monsieur set up in Par-
is.”

^1.

“ Set it up at Jericho, if you like,” said Drys-
dale ; “and now go!”

“May I ask, Mr. Schloss,” broke in San-
ders, “ what it will cost to set up the loom ?”
“Ah ! indeed, a trifle only; some twelve, or
perhaps fourteen, pounds.” Sanders gave a
chuckle, and puffed away at his cigar.

“By Jove,” shouted Drysdale, jerking him-
self in a sitting posture, and upsetting Jack,
who went trotting about the room, and snuftling
at Schloss’s legs ; “ do you mean to say, Schloss,
you were going to make me waistcoats at four-
teen guineas apiece?”

“Not if monsieur disapproves. Ah! the
large hound is not friendly to strangers ; I will
call again wdien monsieur is more at leisure.”
And Schloss gathered up his cards and beat a
hasty retreat, followed by Jack with his head
on one side, and casting an enraged look at
Sanders as he slid through the door.

“Well done. Jack, old boy!” said Sanders,
patting him ; “ what a funk the fellow was in.
Well, you’ve saved your master a pony this fine
morning. Cheap dog you’ve got, Drysdale.”

“ D the fellow !” answered Drysdale, “ho

leaves a bad taste in one’s mouth ;” and he went
to the table, took a pull at the tankard, and then
threw himself down on the sofa again, and Jack
jumped up and coiled himself round by his mas-
ter’s legs, keeping one half-open eye winking at
him, and giving an occasional W'ag with the end
of his taper tail.

Sanders got up and began handling the new
things. First he held up a pair of bright blue
trowsers, with a red stripe across them, Drys-
dale looking on from the sofa. “I say, Drys-
dale, you don’t mean to say you really ordered
these thunder-and-lightning affairs?”

“Heaven onljr knows,” said Drysdale; “I
dare say 1 did. I’d order a full suit cut out
of my grandmother’s farthingale to get that
cursed Schloss out of my rooms sometimes.”

“ You’ll never be able to wear them ; even in
Oxford the boys would mob you. Why don’t
you kick him down stairs ?” suggested Sanders,
putting down the trowsers and turning to Drys-
dale.

“ Well, I’ve been very near it once or twice ;
but I don’t know — my name’s Easy — besides, I
don’t want to give up the beast altogether ; he
makes the best trowsers in England,”

“And these w'aistcoats,” went on Sanders;
“ let me see ; three light silk waistcoats, peach
color, fawn color, and lavender. Well, of
course, you can only wear these at your wed-
dings. You may be married the first time in
the peach or fawn color ; and then, if you have
luck, and bury your first wife soon, it will be a
delicate compliment to take to No. 2 in the lav-
ender, that being half-mourning ; but still, you
see, we’re in difiiculty as to one of the three,
either the peach or the fawn color — ”

Here he was interrupted by another knock,
and a boy entered from the fashionable tobacco-
nist’s in Oriel Lane, \yho had general orders to
let Drysdale have his fair share of any thing

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

very special in the cigar line. He deposited a
two-pound box of cigars at three guineas the
pound, on the table, and withdrew in silence.

Then came a boot-maker with a new pair of
top-boots, which Drysdale had ordered in No-
vember, and had forgotten next day. This
artist, wisely considering tliat his young patron
must have plenty of tops to last him tlirongh
the hunting season (he himself having supplied
three previous pairs in October), had retained
the present pair for show in his window ; and
every one knows that boots wear much better
for being kept some time before use. Now,
however, as the hunting. season was drawing to
a close, and the place in the window was wanted
for spring stock, he judiciously sent in the tops,
merely adding half a sovereign or so to the price
for interest on his outlay since the order. He
also kindly left on the table a pair of large
plated spurs to match the boots.

It never rains but it pours. Sanders sat
smoking his cigar in provoking silence, while
knock succeeded knock, and tradesman follow-
ed tradesman ; each depositing some article or-
dered, or supposed to have been ordered, or
which ought, in the judgment of the depositors,
to have been ordered, by the luckless Drysdale ;
and new hats, and ties, and gloves, and pins
jostled balsam of Neroli, and registered shav-
ing-soap, and fancy letter-paper, and Eau de
Cologne, on every available table. A visit from
two livery-stable keepers in succession followed,
each of whom had several new leaders which
they were anxious Mr. Drysdale should try as
soon as possible. Drysdale growled and grunt-
ed, and wished them or Sanders at the bottom
of the sea ; however, he consoled himself with
the thought that the worst was now past — there
was no other possible supplier of under-graduate
wants who could arrive.

Not so ; in another minute a gentle knock
came at the door. Jack pricked up his ears
and wagged his tail ; Drysdale recklessly shout-
ed, “ Come in !” the door slowly opened about
eighteen inches, and a shock head of hair enter-
ed the room, from which one lively little gimlet
C3’e went glancing about into every corner.
The other eye was closed, but whether as a
perpetual wink to indicate the unsleeping wari-
ness of the owner, or because that hero had
really lost the power of using it in some of his
numerous encounters with men and beasts, no
one, so far as I know, has ever ascertained.

“Ah! Mr. Drysdale, sir !” began the head;
and then rapidly withdrew behind the door, to
avoid one of the spurs which (being the missile
nearest at hand) Drysdale instantly discharged
at it. As the spur fell to the door, the head
reappeared in the room, and as quickly disap-
peared again, in deference to the other spur, the
top boots, an ivory-handled hair-brush, and a
translation of Euripides, which in turn saluted
each successive appearance of said head ; and
the grin was broader on each reappearance.

Then Drysdale, having no otlier article with-
in reach which he could tlirow, bm-st into aloud

fit of laughter, in which Sanders and the head
heartily joined, and shouted, “ Come in, Joe,
you old fool ! and don’t stand bobbing your
ugly old mug in and out there, like a jack in
the box.”

So the head came in, and after it the bodv,
and closed the door behind it; and a queer
cross-grained, tough-looking body it was, of
about fifty years’ standing, or rather slouching,
clothed in an old fustian coat, and corduroy
breeches and gaiters, and being the earthly tab-
ernacle of Joe Muggles, the dog-foncier of St.
Aldate’s. ^

“ How the deuce did you get by the lodge,
Joe ?” inquired Drysdale. Joe, be it known,
had been forbidden the college for importing a
sack of rats into the inner quadrangle, upon the
turf of which a match at rat-killing had come
off between the terriers of two gentlemen-com-
moners. This little event might have passed
unnoticed, but that- Drysdale had bought from
Joe a dozen of the slaughtered rats, and nailed
them on the doors of the four college tutors,
three to a door ; whereupon inquiry had been
made, and Joe had been outlawed.

“ Oh, please, Mr. Drysdale, sir, I just watched
the’ed porter, sir, across to the buttery to get his
mornin’, and then I tips a wink to the under-
porter (pal o’ mine, sir, the under-porter) and
makes a run of it right up.”

“Well, you’ll be quod’ed if you’re caught!
Now w'hat do you w'ant?”

“Why, you see, Mr. Drysdale, sir,” said Joe,
in his most insinuating tone, “my mate hev’
got a old dog brock, sir, from the Heythrop ken-
nel, and Honblo Wernham, sir, of New Inn
’All, sir, he’ve jist been down our yard with a
fighting chap from town, Mr. Drysdale — in the
fancy, sir, he is, and hev got a matter of three
dogs down, a stoppin’ at Milky Bill’s. And he
says, says he, Mr. Drysdale, as arra one of he’s
dogs ’ll draw the old un three times, wdiile arra
Oxford dog’ll draw un twice, andllonble Wern-
ham chaffs as how he’ll back un for a fi’ pun
note;” — and Joe stopped to caress Jack, who
was fawning on him as if he understood every
word.

“ Well, Joe, what then ?” said Drysdale.

“So you see, Mr. Drysdale, sir,” went on
Joe, fondling Jack’s muzzle, “my mate says,
says he, ‘Jack’s the dog as can draw a brock,’
says he, ‘ agin any Lonnun dog as ever was
whelped; and Mr. Drysdale,’ says he, ‘ain’t the
man as ’d see two poor chaps bounced out of
their honest name by arra town chap ; and a fi’
pun note’s no more to he, for the matter o’ that,
then to Honble Wernham his self,’ says my
mate.”

“ So I’m to lend you Jack for a match, and
stand the stakes?”

“ Well, Mr. Drysdale, sir, that was what my
mate was a sayin’.”

“ You’re cool hands, you and your mate,”
said Drysdale ; “ here, take a drink and get
out, and I’ll think about it.” Drysdale was
now in a defiant humor, and resolved not to

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

let Sanders think that his presence could keep
him from any act of folly to which he was in-
clined.

Joe took his drink; and just then several
men came in from lecture, and drew off Drys-
dale’s attention from Jack, who quietly followed
Joe out of the room when that wortliy dis.'ij)-

guardsof themselves up here,” thought Sanders
as he strolled back to his college. And it is a
question which has exercised other heads besides
his, and probably is a long way yet from being
well solved.

peared. Drysdale only laughed when he found
it out and went down to the yard that afternoon
to see the match between the London dog and
bis own pet.

“ How in the world are youngsters with un-
limited credit, plenty of ready monej'’, and fust
tastes, to be kept from making fools and black-

CHAPTER IV.

THE ST. AMBROSE BOAT-CLUB : ITS MINISTRY
AND THEIR BUDGET.

We left our hero, a short time back, busilv
engaged on his dinner commons, and resolved
forthwith to make great friends with Hardv.

24:

TO:\I BROWN AT OXFORD.

It never oceurred to him that there eould he
the slightest diffieulty in earrying out this re-
solve. After such a passage as they two had
had together that afternoon, he felt that the
usual outworks of acquaintanceship had been
cleared at a bound, and looked upon Hardy al-
ready as an old friend to whom, he could talk
out his mind as freely as he had been used to
do to his old tutor at school, or to Arthur.
Moreover, as there were already several things
in his head which he was anxious to ventilate, he
was all the more pleased that chance had thrown
him across a man of so much older standing
than himself, and one to whom he instinctively
felt that he could look up.

Accordingly after grace had been said, and
he saw that Hardy had not finished his dinner,
but sat down again when the fellows had left
the hall, he strolled out, meaning to wait for
his victim outside, and seize upon him then
and there ; so he stopped on the steps outside
the hall-door, and, to pass the time, joined him-
self to one or two other men with whom he had
a speaking acquaintance, who were also hang-
ing about. While they were talking. Hardy
came out of hall, and Tom turned and stepped
forward, meaning to speak to him. To his ut-
ter discomfiture. Hardy walked quickly away,
looking straight before him, and without show-
ing, by look or gesture, that he was conscious
of our hero’s existence, or had ever seen him be-
fore in his life.

Tom was so taken aback that he made no ef-
fort to follow. He just glanced at his compan-
ions to see whether they had noticed the occur-
rence, and was glad to see that they had not
(being deep in the discussion of the merits of
a new hunter of Simmons’s, which one of them
had been riding) ; so he walked away by him-
self to consider what* it could mean. But the
more he puzzled about it, the less could he un-
derstand it. Surely, he thought. Hardy must
have seen me ; and yet, if he had, why did he
not recognize me ? My cap and gown can’t be
such a disguise as all that. And yet common
decency must have led him to ask whether I
was any the worse for my ducking, if he knew
me.

He scouted the notion, which suggested itself
once or twice, that Hardy meant to cut him ;
and so, not being able to come to any reason-
able conclusion, suddenly bethought him that
he was asked to a wine-party ; and, putting his
speculations aside for the moment, with the full
intention, nevertheless, of clearing up the mys-
tery as soon as possible, he betook himself to
the rooms of his entertainer.

They were fair-sized rooms in the second
quadrangle, furnished plainly but well, so far
us Tom could judge ; but, as they were now
laid out for the w'ine-party, they had lost all in-
dividual character for the time. Every one of
us, I suppose, is fond of studying the rooms,
chambers, dens, in short, of whatever sort they
may be, of our friends and acquaintance — at
least, I know that I myself like to see what sort

of a chair a man sits in, where he puts it, what
books lie or stand on the shelves nearest his
hand, what the objects are which he keeps most
familiarly before him, in that particular nook
of the earth’s surface in which he is most at
home, where he pulls off his coat, collar, and
boots, and gets into an old, easy shooting-jacket,
and his broadest slippers. Fine houses and fine
rooms have little attraction for most men, and
those who have the finest drawing-rooms are
probably the most bored by them ; but the den
of a man you like or are disposed to like, has
the strongest and the strangest attraction for
you. However, an Oxford under-graduate’s
room, set out for a wine-party, can tell you
nothing. All the characteristics are shoved
away into the back-ground, and there is noth-
ing to be seen but a long mahogany set out
with bottles, glasses, and dessert. In the pres-
ent instance the preparations for festivity were
pretty much what they ought to be : good sound
port and sherry, biscuits, and a plate or two of
nuts and dried fruits. The host, who sat at
the head of the board, was one of the main-
stays of the college boat-club. He was treasurer
of the club, and also a sort of boating nurse,
who looked up and trained the young oars, and
in this capacity had been in command of the
freshmen’s fout-oar, in which Tom had been
learning his rudiments. He was a heavjq bur-
ly man, naturally awkward in his movements,
but gifted with a sort of steady dogged enthusi-
asm, and by dint of hard and constant training
had made himself into a most useful oar, fit for
any place in the middle of the boat. In the
two years of his residence he had pulled down
to Sandford every day except Sundays, and
much farther whenever he could get any body
to accompany him. He was the most good-na-
tured man in the world, very badly dressed,
very short-sighted, and called every body “ old
fellow.” His name was simple SnSiith, general-
ly known as Diogenes Smith, from an eccentric
habit which he had of making an easy-chair of
his hip-bath. Malicious acquaintance declared
that when Smith first came up, and, having paid
the valuation for the furniture in his rooms,
came to inspect the same, the tub in question
had been left by chance in the sitting-room,
and that Smith, not having the faintest idea of
its proper use, had by the exercise of his natu-
ral reason come to the conclusion that it could
only be meant for a man to sit in, and so had
kept it in his sitting-room,, and taken to it as
an arm-chair. This, I have reason to believe,
was a libel. Certain it is, however, that in his
first term he was discovered sitting solemnly in
his tub, by his fire-side, with his spectacles on,
playing the flute — the only other recreation be-
sides boating in which he indulged ; and no
amount of quizzing could get him out of the
habit. When alone, or with only one or two
friends in his room, he still occupied the tub ;
and declared that it was the most perfect of seats
hitherto invented, and, above all, adapted for
the recreation of a boating man, to whom cush-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ioned seats should be an abomination. He was
naturally a very hospitable man, and on this
night was particularly anxious to make his
rooms pleasant to all comers, as it was a sort
of opening of the boating season. This wine of
his was a business matter, in fact, to which
Diogenes had invited officially, as treasurer of
the boat-club, every man who had ever shown
the least tendency to pulling — many with whom
he had scarcely a nodding acquaintance. For
Miller, the coxswain, had come up at last. He
had taken his B.A. degree in the Michaelmas
term, and had been very near starting for a tour
in the East. Upon turning the matter over in
his mind, however. Miller had come to the con-
clusion that Palestine, and Egypt, and Greece
could not run away, but that, unless he was
there to keep matters going, the St. Ambrose
boat would lose the best chance it was ever
likely to have of getting to the head of the riv-
er. So he had patriotically resolved to reside
till June, read divinity, and coach the racing
crew ; and had written to Diogenes to call to-
gether the whole boating interest of the college,
that they might set to work at once in good
earnest. Tom and the three or four other
freshmen present were duly presented to Miller
as they came in, who looked them over as the
colonel of a crack regiment might look over
horses at Horncastle-fair, with a single eye to
their bone and muscle, and how much work
might be got out of them. They then gath-
ered towards the lower end of the long table,
and surveyed the celebrities at the upper end
with much respect. Miller, the coxswain, sat
on the host’s right hand — a slight, resolute,
fiery little man, with curly black hair. He was
peculiaidy qualified by nature for the task which
he had set himself ; and it takes no mean
qualities to keep a boat’s crew well together and
in order. Perhaps he erred a little on the side
of over-strietness and severity ; and he certain-
ly Avould have been more popular had his man-
ner been a thought more courteous; but the
men who rebelled most against his tyranny
grumblingly confessed that he W'as a first-rate
coxswain.

A very different man w'as the captain of the
boat, who sat opposite to Miller ; altogether, a
noble specimen of a very noble type of our coun-
trymen. Tall and strong of body ; courageous
and even-tempered ; tolerant of all men ; spar-
ing of speech, but ready in action ; a thorough-
ly well balanced, modest, quiet Englishman ;
one of those who do a good stroke of the work
of the country without getting much credit for
it, or ever becoming aware of the fact ; for the
last thing such men understand is how to blow
their own trumpets. He was perhaps too easy
for the captain of St. Ambrose’s boat- club ; at
any rate. Miller w'as always telling him so.
But, if he was not strict enough with others, he
never spared himself, and was as good as three
men in the boat at a pinch.

But if I venture on more introductions, my
readers will get bewildered ; so I must close the

I list, much as I should like to make them known
to “ fortis Gyas fortisque Cloanthus,” who sat
round the cliiefs, laughing and consulting, and
speculating on the chances of the coming races.
No; stay, there is one other man they must
make room for. Here he comes, rather late, in
a very glo.ssy hat, the only man in the room not
in cap and gown. He walks up and takes his
place by the side of the host as a matter of
course ; a handsome, pale man, with a dark,
quick eye, conscious that he draws attention
wherever he goes, and apparently of opinion that
it is his right.

“ Who is that who has just come in in bea-
ver ?” said Tom, touching the next man to him.

“Oh, don’t you know? that’s Blake; he’s
the most Avonderful fellow in Oxford,” answered
his neighbor.

“ How do you mean ?” said Tom.

“ Why, he can do every thing better than al-
most any body, and without any trouble at all.
Miller was obliged to have him in the boat last
year, though he never trained a bit. Then he’s
in the eleven, and is a wonderful rider, and ten-
nis-player, and shot.”

“ Aye, and he’s so awfully clever Avith it all,”
joined in the man on the other side. “He’ll
be a safe first, though I don’t believ^e he reads
more than you or I. He can write songs, too,
as fast as you can talk nearly, and sings them
Avonderfully.”

“Is he of our college, then ?”

“Yes, of course, or he couldn’t have been in
our boat last year.”

“ But I don’t think I ever saw him in chapel
or hall.”

“ No, I dare say not. He hardly ever goes
to either, and yet he manages never to get haul-
ed up much, no one knows hoAv. He never gets
up noAv till the afternoon, and sits up nearly all
night playing cards Avith the fastest felloAvs, or
going round singing glees at three or four in the
morning.”

Tom sipped his port and looked Avith great
interest at the Admirable Crichton of St. Am-
brose’s ; and, after Avatching him a few min-
utes, said in a low voice to his neighbor :

“How Avretched he looks! I ncA'er saAv a
sadder fixee.”

Poor Blake ! one can’t help calling him
“ poor,” although he himself would have winced
at it more than at any other name you could
haA-e called him. You might have admired,
feared, or wondered at him, and he Avould haA'e
been pleased — the object of his life Avas to raise
such feelings in his neighbors ; but pity aa’US the
last which he would haA'e liked to excite.

He was, indeed, a Avonderfully gifted fellow,
full of all sorts of energy and talent, and power
and tenderness ; and yet, as his face told only
too truly to any one Avho Avatched him Avhen he
was exerting himself in society, one of the most
Avretched men in the college. He had a pas-
sion for success — for beating CA^ery body else in
whateA-er he took in hand, and that, too, with-
out seeming to make any great effort himself.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

The doing a thing well and thoroughly gave him
no satisfaction unless he could feel that he was
doing it better and more easily than A, B, or C,
and that they felt and acknowledged this. He
had had his full swing of success for two years,
and now the Nemesis was coming.

For, although not an extravagant man, many
of the pursuits in which he had eclipsed all ri-
vals were far beyond the means of any but a rich
one, and Blake was not rich. He had a fair al-
lowance, but by the end of his first year was con-
siderably in debt, and, at the time we are speak-
ing of, the whole pack of Oxford tradesmen into
whose books he had got (having smelt out the
leanness of his expectations) were upon him,
besieging him for payment. This miserable
and constant annoyance was wearing his soul
out. This was the reason why his oak was sport-
ed, and he was never seen till the afternoons,
and turned night into day. He was too proud
to come to an understanding with his persecu-
tors, even had it been possible ; and now, at his
sorest need, his whole scheme of life was failing
him ; his love of success was turning into ashes
in his mouth : he felt much more disgust than
pleasure at his triumphs over other men, and yet
the habit of striving for such successes, notwith-
standing its irksomeness, was too strong to be
resisted.

Poor Blake ! he was living on from hand to
mouth, flashing out with all his old brilliancy
and power, and forcing himself to take the lead
in whatever company he might be ; but utterlj^
lonely and depressed when by himself — reading
feverishly in secret, in a desperate effort to re-
trieve all by high honors and a fellowship. As
Tom said to his neighbor, there was no sadder
face than his to be seen in Oxford.

And yet at this very wine-party he was the
life of every thing, as he sat up there between
Diogenes — whom he kept in a constant sort of
mild epileptic fit, from laughter, and wine going
the wrong way (for whenever Diogenes raised
his glass Blake shot him with some joke) — and
the Captain, who watched him with the most
undisguised admiration. A singular contrast,
the two men I Miller, though Blake was the tor-
ment of his life, relaxed after the first quarter
of an hour ; and our hero, by the same time,
gave himself credit for being a much greater ass
than he Avas, for having ever thought Blake’s
face a sad one.

When the room was quite full, and enough
Avine had been drunk to open the hearts of the
guests, Diogenes rose on a signal from Miller,
and opened the budget. The financial state-
ment Avas a satisfactory one ; the club Avas al-
most free of debt ; and, comparing their position
with that of other colleges, Diogenes advised that
they might fairly burden themselves a little
more, and then, if they Avould stand a Avhip of
ten shillings a man, they might haA'e a new
boat, which he believed they all Avould agree had
become necessary. Miller supported the neAV
boat in a pungent little speech ; and the Cap-
tain, Avhen appealed to, nodded and said he

thought they must haA-e one. So the small sup-
plies and the large addition to the club debt Avere
voted unanimously, and the Captain, Miller, and
Blake, Avho had many notions as to the flooring,
lines, and keel of a racing-boat, were appointed
to order and superintend the building.

Soon afterwards, coffee came in and cigars
Avere lighted ; a large section of the party Avent
off to play pool, others to stroll about the streets,
others to whist ; a feAv, let us hope, to their OAvn
rooms to read ; but these latter were a sadly
small minority even in the quietest of St. Am-
brose parties.

Tom, Avho Avas fascinated by the heroes at the
head of tlie table, sat steadily on, sidling up to-
wards them as the intermediate places became
vacant, and at last attained the next chair but
one to the Captain, where for the time he sat in
perfect bliss. Blake and Miller Avcre telling
boating stories of the Henley and Thames re-
gattas, the latter of which had been lately start-
ed Avith great sclut ; and from these great yearly
events, and the deeds of proAvess done thereat,
the talk came gradually round to the next races.

“Noaa", Captain, ’’saidMiller, suddenly, “haA^e
you thought yet Avhat ncAv men Ave are to try in
the crew this year?”

“No, ’pon my honor I haA-en’t,” said the
Captain; “Fm reading, and haA-e no time to
spare. Besides, after all, there’s lots of time to
think about it. Here, Ave’re only half through
Lent term, and the races don’t begin till the
end of Easter term.”

“ It Avon’t do,” said Miller ; “ Ave must get the
crew together this term.”

“ Well, you and Smith put your heads to-
gether and manage it,” said the Captain. “I
Avill go down any dav, and as often as you like,
at two o’clock.”

“Let’s see,” said Miller to Smith; “how
many of the old crcAv have Ave left ?”

“ Five, counting Blake,” answered Diogenes.

“Counting me! Avell, that’s cool,” laughed
Blake; “you old tub-haunting flute-player,
why am I not to be counted ?”

“You ncA-er Avill train, you see,” said Di-
ogenes.

“ Smith is quite right,” said Miller; “ there’s
no counting on you, Blake. Now, be a good
fellow-, and promise to be regular this year.”

“ I’ll promise to do my Avork in a race, Avhich
is more than some of your best-trained men
Avill do,” said Blake, rather piqued. .

“Well, you know Avhat I think on the sub-
ject,” said Miller; “but Avho liaA-e Ave got for
the other three places ?”

“There’s Drysdale Avould do,” said Diogenes ;
“ I heard he Avas a capital oar at Eton ; and so,
though I don’t knoAV him, I managed to get him
once doAvn last term. He Avould do famously
for No. 2 or No. 3 if he Avould pull.”

“Do you think he Avill, Blake? You knoAv
him, I suppose,” said Miller.

“ Yes, I knoAv him Avell enough,” said Blake ;
and, shrugging his shoulders, added, “ I don’t
think you Avill get him to train much.”

TOM BKOWN AT OXFOKD.

“Well, we must try,” said Miller. “Now
who else is there ?”

Smith went through four or five names, at
each of which Miller shook his head.

“Any promising freshmen ?” said he at last.
“None better than Brown here,” said Smith ;
“I think he’ll do well, if he will only work,
and stand being coached.”

“ Have you ever pulled much?” said Miller.
“No,” said Tom, “never till this last month
— since I’ve been up here.”

“All the better,” said Miller; “now, Cap-
tain, you hear ; we may probably have to go in
with three new hands ; they must get into your
stroke this term, or we shall be nowhere.”
“Very well,” said the Captain; “I’ll give
from two till five any days you like.”

“And now let’s go and have one pool,” said
Blake, getting up. “ Come, Captain, just one
little pool after all this business.”

Diogenes insisted on staying to play his flute ;
Miller was engaged ; but the Captain, with a
little coaxing, was led away by Blake, and
good-naturedly asked Tom to accompany them,
when he saw that he was looking as if he would
like it. So the three went oft' to the billiard-
rooms ; Tom in such spirits at the chance of
being tried in the crew, that he hardly noticed
the exceedingly bad exchange which he had in-
voluntarily made of his new cap and gown for
a third-year cap with the board broken into
several pieces, and a fusty old gown Avhich had
been about college probably for ten genera-
tions. Under-graduate morality in the matter
of caps and gOAvns seems to be founded on the
celebrated maxim, “Propriete o’est le vol.”
They found the St. Ambrose pool-room full
of the fast set; and Tom enjoyed his game
much, though his three lives Avere soon dis-
posed of. The Captain and Blake Avere the
last lives on the board, and divided the pool at
Blake’s suggestion. He had scarcely nen-e for
playing out a single-handed match with such
an iron-nerved, steady piece of humanity as the
Captain, though he Avas the more brilliant play-
er of the tAvo. The party then broke up, and
Tom returned to his rooms ; and, Avhen he Avas
by himself again, his thoughts recurred to
Hardy. Hoav odd, he thought, that they never
mentioned him for the boat! Could he have
done any thing to be ashamed of? Hoav was
it that nobody seemed to knoAv him, and he to
knoAv nobody ?

Most readers, I doubt not, Avill think our hero
very green for being puzzled at so simple a mat-
ter ; and, no doubt, the steps in the social scale
in England are very clearly marked out, and
Ave all come to the appreciation of the grada-
tions sooner or later. But our hero’s previous
education must be taken into consideration.
He had not been instructed at home to wor-
ship mere conventional distinctions of rank or
Avealth, and had gone to a school which Avas
not frequented by persons of rank, and where
no one kneAV Avhether a boy Avas heir to a prin-
cipality, or Avould have to fight his OAvn Avay in

the Avorld. So he Avas rather taken by surprise
at Avhat he found to be the state of things at Su
Ambrose’s, and didn’t easily realize it.

CHAPTER V.

HARDY, THE SERA'ITOR.

It Avas not long before Tom had effected his
object in part; that is to say, he had caught
Hardy several times in the quadrangle coming
out of lecture, hall, or chapel, and had fastened
himself upon him ; often Avalking Avith him even
up to the door of his rooms. But there mat-
ters ended. Hardy was very civil and gentle-
manly ; he even seemed pleased Avith the vol-
unteered companionship; but there Avas un-
doubtedly a coolness about him Avhich Tom
could not make out. But, as he only liked
Hardy more, the more he saAV of him, he A’ery
soon made up his mind to break ground himself,
and to make a dash, at any rate, for something
more than a mere speaking acquaintance.

One evening he had, as usual, Avalked from
hall Avith Hardy up to his door. They stopped
a moment talking, and then Hardy, half open-
ing the door, said : “ Well, good-night ; per-
haps Ave shall meet on the river to-morroAV,”
and Avas going in, Avhen Tom, looking him in
the face, blurted out, “I say, Hardy, I wish
you’d let me come in and sit Avith you a bit.”

“ I ncA^er ask a man of our college into my
rooms,” ansAvered the other ; “but come in, by
all means, if you like ;” and so they entered.

The room Avas the Avorst, both in situation
and furniture, which Tom had yet seen. It
Avas on the ground floor, with only one windoAA',
Avhich looked out into a back yard, Avhere AA’cre
the offices of the college. All day, and up to
nine o’clock at night, the yard and offices Avere
filled Avith scouts ; boys cleaning boots and
knives ; bed-makers emptying slops and tattling
scandal ; scullions peeling potatoes and listen-
ing ; and the butchers’ and green-grocers’ men
who supply the college, and loitered about to
gossip and get a taste of college ale before go-
ing about their business. The room was large,
but low and close, and the floor uneven. The
furniture did not add to the cheerfulness of the
apartment. It consisted of one large table in
the middle, covered with an old checkered ta-
ble-cloth, and an Oxford table near the AvindoAA',
on Avhich lay half a dozen books, Avith Avriting
materials. A couple of plain Windsor cdiairs
occupied the tAvo sides of the fire-place, and half
a dozen common wooden chairs stood against
the opposite AA-all, three on each side of a pret-
ty-Avell-filled book-case ; Avhile an old rickety
sofa, covered with soiled chintz, leaned against
the Avail which fronted the AvindoAv, as if to rest
its lame leg. The carpet and rug AA'ere dingy,
and decidedly the Av'orse for Avear ; and the col-
lege had evidently neglected to paper the room
or AvhiteAvash the ceiling for several generations.
On the mantel-piece reposed a fcAV long clay

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

pipes, and a brown earthen-ware receptacle for
tobacco, together with a japanned tin case,
shaped like a figure of eight, the use of which
puzzled Tom exceedingly. One modestly-
framed drawing of a 10-gun brig liung above,
and at the side of the fire-place a sword and belt.
All this Tom had time to remark by the light
of the fire, which was burning brightly, while
his host produced a couple of brass candlesticks
from his cupboard and lighted up, and drew the
curtain before his window. Then Tom in-
stinctively left off taking his notes, for fear of
hurting the other’s feelings (just as he would
have gone on doing so, and making remarks on
every thing, had the rooms been models of taste
and comfort), and throwing his cap and gown
on the sofa, sat down on one of the Windsor
chairs.

“What a jolly chair,” said he; “where do
you get them ? I should like to buy one.”

“Yes, they’re comfortable enough,” said
Hardy; “but the reason I have them is, that
they are the cheapest arm-chairs one can get.
I like an arm-chair, and can’t afford to have any
other than these.”

Tom dropped the subject of the chairs at
once, following his instinct again, which, sad to
say, was already teaching him th.at poverty is a
disgrace to a Briton, and that, until you know
a man thoroughly, you must always seem to as-
sume that he is the owner of unlimited ready
money. Somehow or another, he began to feel
embarrassed, and couldn’t think of any thing to
say, as his host took down the pipes and tobac-
co from the mantel-piece and placed them on
the table. However, any thing was better than
silence ; so he began again.

“Very good sized rooms yours seem,” said
he, taking up a pipe mechanicallJ^

“Big enough, for the matter of that,” an-
swered the other; “ but very dark and noisy in
the daytime.”

“So I should think,” said Tom; “do you
know, I’d sooner, now, have my freshman’s
rooms up in tlie garrets. I wonder you don’t
change.”

“ I get these for nothing,” said his host, put-
ting his long clay to the candle, and puffing out
volumes of smoke. Tom felt more and more
unequal to the situation, and filled his pipe in
silence. The first whiff made him cough, as he
wasn’t used to the fragrant weed in this shape.

“I’m afraid you don’t smoke tobacco,” said
his host from behind his own cloud; “shall I
go out and fetch you a cigar? I don’t smoke
them myself; I can’t afford it.”

“No, thank you,” said Tom, blushing for
shame, as if he had come there only to insult
his host, and wishing himself heartily out of it,
“ I’ve got my case here ; and the fact is, I will
smoke a cigar if you’ll allow me, for I’m not up
to pipes yet. I wish you’d take some,” he
went on, emptying his cigars on to the table.

“Thank’ee,” replied his host, “I prefer a
pipe. And now what will you have to drink?
I don’t keep wine, but I can get a bottle of any

thing you like from the common room. That’s
one of our privileges ” — he gave a grim chuckle
as he emphasized the word “our.”

“Who on earth are wef' thought Tom ;
“servitors, I suppose,” for he knew already
that under-graduates in general could not get
wine from the college cellars.

“I don’t care a straw about wine,” said he,
feeling very hot about the ears; “a glass of
beer, or any thing you have here — or tea.”
“Well, I can give you a pretty good glass
of whisky,” said his host, going to the cup-
board, and producing a black bottle, two tum-
blers of different sizes, some little wooden tod-
dy ladles, and sugar in an old cracked glass.

Tom vowed that if there was one thing in
the world he liked more than another, it was
whisky ; and began measuring out the liquor
carefully into his tumbler, and rolling it round
between his eye and the candle, and smelling
it, to show' Avhat a treat it was to him ; while
his host put the kettle on the fire, to ascertain
that it w'as quite boiling, and then, as it splut-
tei’ed and fizzed, filled up the two tumblers, and
restored it to its place on the hob.

Tom swallowed some of the mixture, which
nearly made him cough again ; for, though it
w'as very good it w'as also vei-y potent. How'-
ever, by an effort he managed to sw'allow his
cough ; he would about as soon have lost a
little finger as let it out. Then, to his great re-
lief, his host took the pipe from his lips, and in-
quired, “ How do you lik6 Oxford?”

“I hardly know yet,” said Tom ; “ the first
few days I was delighted with going about and
seeing the buildings, and finding out w'ho had
lived in each of the old colleges, and pottering
about in the Bodleian, and fancying I should
like to be a great scholar. Then I met several
old school-fellows going about, who are up at
other colleges, and went to their rooms and talk-
ed over old times. But none of my very inti-
mate friends are up yet, and unless you care
very much about a man already, you don’t seem
to be likely to get intimate with him up here,
unless he is at your own college.”

He paused, as if expecting an answer.

“ I dare say not,” said Hardy ; “ but I never
was at a public school, unluckily, and so am no
judge.”

“Well, then, as to the college life,” went on
Tom, “it’s all very well as far as it goes.
There’s plenty of liberty and good food. And
the men seem nice fellow's — many of them, at
least, as far as I can judge. But I can’t say
that I like it as much as I liked our school life.”
“ I don’t understand,” said Hardy. “ Why
not?”

“Oh! I hardly know,” said Tom, laughing;
“ I don’t seem as if I had any thing to do here ;
that’s one reason, I think. And then, you see,
at Rugby I was rather a great man. There one
had a share in the ruling of three hundred boys,
and a good deal of responsibility ; but here one
has only just to take care of one’s self and keep
out of scrapes ; and that’s what I never could

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

do, Wliat do you think a fellow ought to do,
now, up here ?”

“ Oh, I don’t see much difficulty in that,”
said his host, smiling ; “ get up your lectures
well to begin with.”

“But my lectures are a farce,” said Tom;
“I’ve done all the books over and over again.
They don’t take me an hour a day to get up.”
“ Well, then, set to work reading something
regularly — reading fur your degree, for in-
sti»nce.”

“Oh, hang it! I can’t look so far forward
•'s that ; I shan’t be going up for three years,”
“ You can’t begin too early. You might go
and talk to your college tutor about it.”

“ So I did,” said Tom ; “at least I meant to
do it. For he asked me and two other fresh-
men to breakfast, the other morning, and I was
going to open out to him ; but when I got there
I was quite shut up. He never looked one of
us in the face, and talked in set sentences, and
was cold and formal and condescending. The
only bit of advice he gave us was to have nothing
to do with boating — ^just the one thing which
I feel a real interest in. I eouldn’t get out a
Avord of what I wanted to say.”

“It is unlucky, certainly, that our present
tutors take so little interest in any thing which
the men care about. But it is more from shy-
ness than any thing else, that manner which you
noticed. You may be sure that he was more
Avretched and embarrassed than any of you.”

“ Well, but noAV I should really like to know
Avhat you did yourself,” said Tom; “you are
the only man of much older standing than my-
self Avhom I knoAv at all yet— I mean I don’t
know any body else Avell enough to talk about
this sort of thing to them. What did you do,
noAV, besides learning to pull, in your first
year?”

“I had learned to pull before I came up
here,” said Hardy, “I really hardly remember
Avhat I did besides read. You see, I came up
Avith a definite purpose of reading. My father
Avas vei’y anxious that I should be a good schol-
ar. Then my position in the college and my
poverty naturally kept me out of many things
Avhich other men do.”

Tom flushed again at the ugly Avord, but not
so much as at first. Hardy couldn’t mind the
subject, or he Avould never be forcing it up at
every tarn, he thought.

“ You Avouldn’t^ think it,” ho began again,
harping on the same string ; “but I can hard-
ly tell you hoAV I miss the sort of responsibility
I Avas talking to you about. I have no doubt I
shall get the vacuum filled up before long, but
for the life of me I can’t see how yet.”

“ You Avill be a very lucky fellow if you don’t
find it quite as much as you car^do to keep
yourself in order up here. It is about the
toughest part of a man’s life, I do belieA'e, the
time he has to spend here. My university life
has been so different altogether from what yours
Avill be, that my experience isn’t likely to benefit
you.”

“I wish you AA'Ould try me, though,” said
Tom; “you don’t know Avhat a teachable sort
of felloAV I am, if any body Avill take me the
right Avay. You taught me to scull, you knoAV,
or at least put me in the way to learn. But
sculling and rowing and cricket, and all the
rest of it, Avith such reading as I am likely to
do, Avon’t be enough. I feel sure of that al-
ready.”

“I don’t think it Avill,” said Hardy. “No
amount of physical or mental Avork Avill fill the
vacuum you Avere talking of just now. It is the
empty house swept and garnished, Avhich the boy-
might have had glimpses of, but the man finds
yawning within him, and Avhich must be filled
somehoAv. It’s a pretty- good three years’ Avork
to learn Iioav to keep the devils out of it, more
or less, by the time you take your degree. At
least I have found it so.”

Hardy rose and took a turn or two up and
down his room. He was astonished at finding
himself talking so unreservedly to one of whom
he kncAV so little, and half-Avished the Avords re-
called. He liv-ed much alone, and though,
himself morbid and too self-conscious; Avhy
should he be filling a youngster’s head Avith
puzzles? How did he knoAV that they were
thinking of the same thing?

But the spoken Avord can not be recalled ; it
must go on its Avay for good or evil ; and this
one set the hearer staring into the ashes and
putting many things together in his head.

It was some minutes before he broke silence,
but at last he gathered up his thoughts, and
said : “ Well, I hope I shan’t shirk when the
time comes. You don’t think a felloAv need
shut himself up, though ? I’m sure I shouldn’t
be any the better for that.”

“No, I don’t think you would,” said Hardy-.
“Because you see,” Tom Avent on, Av-axing
bolder and more confidential, “ if I were to take
to moping by myself, I shouldn’t read as you or
any sensible felloAv AA-ould do ; I knoAV that Avell
enough. I should just begin, sitting Avith my-
legs up on tbe mantel-piece, and looking into my
OAvn inside. I see you are laughing, but you
knoAV Avhat I mean, don’t you now ?”

“ Yes ; staring into the vacuum y-ou Avere
talking of just noAV ; it all comes back to that,”
said Hardy.

“Well, perhaps it does,” said Tom ; “ and I
don’t believe it does a felloAV a bit of good to be
thinking about himself and his OAvn doings.”
“Only he can’t help himself,” said Hardy.
“ Let him throw himself as he Avill into all that
is going on up here, after all he must be alone
for a great part of his time — all night, at any
rate — and Avhen he gets his oak sported, it’s aU
up Avith him. He must be looking more or less
into his OAvn inside, as you call it.”

“Then I hope he Avon’t find it as ugly a
business as I do. If he does, I’m sure he can’t
be Avorse employed.”

“ I don’t knoAV that,” said Hardy ; “he can’t
learn any thing worth learning in any other
vA'ay.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“Oh, I like that!” said Tom; “it’s worth [
learning how to play tennis, and how to speak
the truth. You can’t learn either by thinking
about yourself ever so much.”

“You must know the truth before you can
speak it,” said Hardy.

“ So you always do in plenty of time.”
“How?” said Hardy.

“ Oh, I don’t know,” said Tom ; “ by a sort
of instinct, I suppose. I never in my life felt
any doubt about what I ought to say or do ; did
you?”

“Well, yours is a good, comfortable, working
belief, at any rate,” said Hardy, smiling ; “and
I should advise you to hold on to it as long as
you can.”

“But you don’t think I can for very long,
eh ?”

“No : but men are very different. There’s
no saying. If you were going to get out of the
self-dissecting business altogether, though, why
should you have brought the subject up at all to-
night ? It looks awkward for you, doesn’t it?”
Tom began to feel rather forlorn at this sug-
gestion, and probably betrayed it in his face, for
Hardy changed the subject suddenly.

“How do you get on in the boat? I saw
you going down to-day, and thought the time
much better.”

Tom felt greatly relieved, as he was begin-
ning to find himself in rather deep water : so
he rushed into boating with great zest, and the
two chatted on very pleasantly on that and oth-
er like matters.

The college clock struck during a pause in
their talk, and Tom looked at his watch.

“Eight o’clock, I declare !” he said ; “ why I
must have been here more than two hours. I’m
afraid, now, you have been wanting to work, and
I have kept you from it with my talk.”

“No, it’s Saturday night. Besides I don’t
get much society that I care about, and so I en-
joy it all the more. Won’t you stop and have
some tea?”

Tom gladly consented, and his host produced
a somewhat dilapidated set of crockery, and pro-
ceeded to brew the drink least appreciated at
St. Ambrose’s. Tom watched him in silence,
much exercised in his mind as to what manner
of man he had fallen upon ; very much astonish-
ed at himself for having opened out so freely,
and feeling a desire to know more of Hardy, not
unmixed tvith a sort* of nervousness as to how
he was to accomplish it.

When Hardy sat down again and began pour-
ing out the tea, curiosity overcame, and he open-
ed with :

“ So you read most nights after hall?”

“Yes, for two or three hours ; longer, when I
am in a good humor.”

“What, all by yourself?”

“ Generally; but once or twice a week Grey
comes in to compare notes. Do you know
him ?”

“ No, at least he hasn’t called on me. I
have just spoken to him.”

“ He is a quiet fellow, and I dare say doesn’t
call on any man unless he knew something of
him before.”

“ Don’t you?”

“Never,” said Hardy, shortly; and added
after a short pause, “very few men would thank
me if I did ; most would think it impertinent,
and I’m too proud to risk that.”

Tom was on the point of asking why ; but
the uncomfortable feeling which he had nearly
lost came back on him.

“ I suppose one very soon gets tired of the wine
and supper party life, though I own I find it
pleasant enough now.”

“I have never been tired,” said Hardy;
“ servitors are not troubled with that kind of
thing. If they Avere I Avouldn’t go unless I
could return them, and that I can’t atford.”

“ There he goes again,” thought Tom ; “why
will he be throwing that old story in my face
over and over again ? he can’t think I care about
his poverty; I won’t change the subject this
time at any rate.” And so he said ;

“You don’t mean to say that it makes any
real difference to a man in society up here wheth-
er he is poor or rich ; I mean, of cou'rse, if he is
a gentleman and a good fellow ?”

“Yes, it does — the very greatest possible.
But don’t take my word for it. Keep your
eyes open and judge for yourself; I dare say
I’m prejudiced on the subject.”

“Well I shan’t believe it if I can help it,”
said Tom; “you knoAV you said just now that
you never called on any one. Perhaps you don’t
give men a fair chance. They might be glad
to know you if you would let them, and may
think it’s your fault that they don’t.”

“Very possibly,^’ said Hardy; “I tell you
not to take my w*ord for it.”

“ It upsets all one’s ideas so,” went on Tom :
“ w'hy, Oxford ought to be the place in England
where money should count for nothing. Surely,
now, such a man as Jervis, our captain, has more
influence than all the rich men in the college
put together, and is more looked up to ?”

“He’s one of a thousand,” said Hardy;
“ handsome, strong, good-tempered, clever, and
up to every thing. Besides, he isn’t a poor
man ; and mind, I don’t say that if he were he
Avouldn’t be where he is. I am speaking of the
rule, and not of the exceptions.”

Here Hardy’s scout came in to say that the
Dean wanted to speak to him. So he put on
his cap and gown, and Tom rose also.

“Well, I’m sorry to turn you out,” said
Hardy, “and I’m afraid I’ve been very surly
and made ymu very uncomfortable. You won’t
come back again in a hurry.”

“ Indeed I rvill though, if you will let me,”
said Tom ;«“ I have enjoyed my evening im-
mensely.”

“ Then come whenever you like,” said Hardy.
“ But I am afraid of interfering Avith your
reading,” said Tom.

“ Oh, you needn’t mind that; I have plenty
of time on mV hands ; besides, one can’t read

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

all night, and from eight till ten you’ll find me
generally idle.”

“Then you’ll see me often enougli. But
promise, now, to turn me out whenever I am in
the way.”

“Very well,” said Hardy, laughing; and so
they parted for the time.

Some twenty minutes afterwards Hardy re-
turned to his room after his interview with the
Dean, who merely wanted to speak to him about
some matter of college business. He flung his
cap and gown on to the sofa, and began to walk
up and down his room, at first hurriedly, but
soon with his usual regular tramp. However
expressive a man’s face may be, and however
well you may know it, it is simply nonsense to
say that you can tell what he is thinking about
by looking at it, as many of us are apt to boast.
Still more absurd would it be to expect readers
to know what Hardy is thinking about, when
they have never had the advantage of seeing his
face, even in a photograph. Wherefore, it would
seem that the author is bound on such occasions
to put his readers on equal vantage-ground with
himself, and not only to tell them what a man
docs, but, so far as maj' be, what he is thinking
about also.

His first thought, then, was one of pleasure at
having been sought out by one who seemed to
be just the sort of friend he would like to have.
He contrasted our hero with the few men with
whom he generally lived, and for some of whom
he had a high esteem — whose only idea of ex-
ercise was a two hours’ constitutional walk in
the afternoons, and whose life was chiefly spent
over books and behind sported oaks — and felt
tliat this was more of a man after his own heart.
Then came doubts whether his new friend would
draw back when he had been up a little longer,
and knew more of the place. At any rate he
had said and done nothing to tempt him ; “if
he pushes the acquaintance — and I think he
Avill — it will be because he likes me for myself.
And I can do him good, too, I feel sure,” he
went on, as he ran over rapidly his own life for
the last three years. “Perhaps he won’t floun-
der into all the sloughs that I have had to drag
through ; he will get too much of the healthy,
active life up here for that, which I have never
had ; but some of them he must get into. All
the companionship of boating and cricketing,
and wine-parties and supper-parties, and all the
reading in the world, won’t keep him from many
along hour of mawkishness, and discontent, and
emptiness of heart ; he feels that already him-
self. Am I sure of that, though ? I may be
only reading myself into him. At any rate, why
should I have helped to trouble him before the
time? Was that a friend’s part? Well, he
7nust face it, and the sooner the better, perhaps.
At any rate, it is done. But Avhat a blessed
thing if one can only help a youngster like this
to figlit his way through the cold clammy at-
mosphere which is alwa}-s hanging over him,
and ready to settle dowm on him — can help to
keep some living faith in him, that the world.

Oxford and all, isn’t a respectable piece of ma-
chinery set going some centuries back! Ah!
it’s .an awful business, that temptation to believe,
or think you believe, in a dead God. It has
nearly broken my back a score of times. What
are all the temptations of the world, the flesh, and
the devil to this ? It includes them all. Well,
I believe I can help him, and, please God, I will,
if he will only let me ; and the very sight of him
does me good ; so I -won’t believe we went down
the lasher together for nothing.”

And so at last Hard}' finished his walk, took
down a volume of Don Quixote from his shelves,
and sat down for an hour’s enjoyment before
turning in.

CHAPTER VI.

HQ-W DRV SCALE AND BLAKE -WENT FISITTNG.

“ Drysdale, what’s a servitor?”

“ How' the deuce should I know ?”

This short and ])ithy dialogue took place in
Drysdale’s rooms one evening soon after the con-
versation recorded in the last chapter. He and
Tom were sitting alone there, for a w'onder, and
so the latter seized the occasion to propound this
question, which he had had on his mind for some
time. He w'as scarcely satisfied with the above
rejoinder; but while he was thinking how to
come at the subject by another road, Drysdale
opened a morocco fly-book and poured its con-
tents on the table, which was already covered
with flies of all sorts and patterns, hanks of gut,
delicate made-up casts, reels, minnoAvs, and tack-
le enough to kill all the fish in the four neigh-
boring counties. Tom began turning them over
and scrutinizing the dressings of the flies.

“It has been so mild, the fish must be in sea-
son, don’t you think ? Besides, if they’re not,
it’s a jolly drive to Fairford, at any rate. You’ve
never been behind my team, Browm. You’d bet-
ter come, now, to-morrow.”

“ I can’t cut my two lectures.”

“Bother your lectures! Put on an teger,
then.”

“ No ! tliat doesn’t suit my book, you know.”
“I can’t see why you should be so cursedly
particular. Well, if you w-on’t, you w'on’t ; I
know that well enough. But what cast should
you fish with to-morrow ?”

“ How many flies do you use ?”

“ Sometimes two, sometimes three.”

“ Two’s enough, I think ; all depends on the
weather ; but, if it’s at all like to-day, you can’t
do better, I should think, than the old Marcli
broAvn and a palmer to begin with. Then, for
change, this hare’s ear, and an alder fly, per-
haps ; or — let me see,” and he began searching
the glittering heap to select a color to go wdth
the dull hare’s ear.

“Isn’t it early for the alder ?” said Drysdale.
“Rather, perhaps ; but they can’t resist it.”

“ These bang-tailed little sinners any good ?”
said Drysdale, throwing some cock-a-bondies
across the table.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“Yes ; I never like to be without them, and
a governor or two. Here, this is a well-tied lot,”
said Tom, picking out half a dozen. “You
never know when you may not kill with either
of them. But I don’t know the Fai'rford water ;
so my opinion isn’t worth much.”

Tom soon returned to the old topic.

“ But now, Drysdale, you must know what a
servitor is.”

“Why should I? Do you mean one of our
college servitors?”

“Yes.”

“ Oh, something in the upper-servant line.
I should put him above the porter, and below
the cook and butler. He does the dons’ dirty
work, and gets their broken victuals ; and I be-
lieve he pays no college fees.”

Tom rather drew into himself at this insolent
and off-hand definition. He was astonished and
hurt at the tone of his friend. However, pres-
ently he resolved to go through with it, and be-
gan again.

“But servitors are gentlemen, I suppose?”

“ A good deal of the cock-tail about them, I
should think. But I have not the honor of any
acquaintance among them.”

“ At any rate, they are under-graduates, are
not they ?”

“Yes.”

“ And may take degrees, just like you or me?”
“They may have all the degrees to them-
selves, for any thing I care. I wish they w'ould
let one pay a servitor for passing little-go for
one. It would be deuced comfortable. I win-
der it don’t strike the dons, now ; they might
get clever beggars for servitors, and farm them,
and so make loads of tin.”

“ But, Drysdale, seriously, why should you
talk like that? If they can take all the degrees
we can, and are, in fact, just what we are, un-
der-graduates, I can’t see vrhy they’re not as
likely to be gentlemen as we. It can surely
make no difference, their being poor men?”

“It must make them devilish uncomfortable,”
said the incorrigible payer of double fees, getting
up to light his cigar.

“ The name ought to carry respect here, at
any rate. The Black Prince was an Oxford
man, and he thought the noblest motto he could
take was, ‘Ich dien,’ I serve.”

“If he were here now, he would change it
for ‘ Je paye.’ ”

“I often wish you would tell me what you
really and truly think, Drysdale.”

“My dear fellow, I am telling you what I
do really think. Whatever the Black Prince
might be pleased to observe if he were here, I
stick to my motto. I tell you the thing to be
able to do here at Oxford is — to pay.”

“ I don’t believe it.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“ I don’t believe you do either.”

“ I do, though. But what makes you so cu-
rious about servitors ?”

“Why, I’ve made friends with Hardy, one of
our servitors. He is such a fine fellow !”

I am soiTy to relate that it cost Tom an ef-
fort to say this to Drysdale ; but he despised
himself that it was so.

“You should have told me so before you be-
gan to pump me,” said Drysdale. ‘ ‘ However, I
partly suspected something of the sort. You’ve
a good bit of a Quixote in you. But really,
Brown,” he added, seeing Tom redden and look
angry, “I’m sorry if what I said pained you.
I dare say this friend of yours is a gentleman,
and all you say.”

“ He is more of a gentleman, by a long way,
than most of the — ”

“ ‘ Gentlemen- commoners,’ you were going
to say. Don’t crane at such a small fence on
my account. I will put it in another way for
you. He can’t be a greater snob than many of
them.”

“Well, but why do you live with them so
much, then ?”

“Why? Because they happen to do the
things I like doing, and live up here as I like
to live. I like hunting and driving, and draw-
ing badgers, and playing cards, and good wines
and cigars. They hunt and drive, and keep
dogs and good cellars, and will play unlimited
loo or Van-John as long as I please.”

“But I know you get very sick of all that
often, for I’ve heard you say as much half a
dozen times in the little time I’ve been here.”

“ Why, you don’t want to deny me the Brit-
on’s privilege of grumbling, do you ?” said Drys-
dale, as he flung his legs up on the sofa, cross-
ing one over the other as he lounged on his
back — his favorite attitude ; “ but suppose I am
getting tired of it all — which I am not ; what
do you propose as a substitute?”

“ Take to boating. I know you could be in
the first boat if you liked ; I heard them say so
at Smith’s wine the other night.”

“ But what’s to prevent my getting just as
tired of that ? Besides, it’s such a grind. And
then there’s the bore of changing all one’s hab-
its.” '

“Yes; but it’s such splendid hard work,”
said Tom, who was bent on making a convert
of his friend.

“ Just so ; and that’s just what I don’t want ;
the ‘ books, and work, and healthful play ’ line
don’t suit my complaint. No, as my old uncle
says, ‘ a young fellow must sow his wild oats,’
and Oxford seems a place specially set apart by
Providence for that operation.”

In all the wild range of accepted British max-
ims there is none, take it for all in all, more
thoroughly abominable than this one as to the
sowing of wild oats. Look at it on what side-
you will, and you can make nothing but a
devil’s maxim of it. What a man — be he young,
old, or middle-aged — soavs, t/iat, and nothing
else, shall he reap. The one only thing to do
with wild oats is to put them carefully into the
hottest part of the fire, and get them burnt to
dust, every seed of them. If you soav them, no
matter in what ground, up they will come, with
long tough roots like couch-grass, and luxnri-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ant stalks and leaves, as sure as there is a sun
in heaven — a crop which it turns one’s heart
cold to chink of. The devil, too, whose special
crop they are, will see that they thrive, and you,
and nobody else, will have to reap them ; and
no common reaping will get them out of the
soil, which must be dug down deep again and
again. Well for you if, with all your care, you
can make the ground sweet again by your dying
day. “Boys will be boys ” is not much better,
but that has a true side to it ; but this en-
couragement to the sowing of wild oats is sim-
ply devilish, for it means that a young man is
to give way to the temptations and follow the
lusts of his age. What are we to do with the
wild oats of manliood and old age — with ambi-
tion, over-reaching, the false weights, hardness,
suspicion, avarice — if the wild oats of youth are
to be sown, and not burnt? What possible dis-
tinction can we draw between them ? If we may
sow the one, why not the other ?

But to get back to our story. Tom went
away from Drysdale’s rooms that night (after
they had sorted all the tackle, which was to ac-
company the fishing expedition, to their satis-
faction) in a disturbed state of mind. He was
very much annoyed at Drysdale’s way of talk-
ing, because he was getting to like the man.
He was surprised and angry at being driven
more and more to the conclusion that the wor-
ship of the golden calf was verily and indeed
rampant in Oxford — side by side, no doubt,
with much that was manly and noble, but taint-
ing more or less the whole life of the place.
In fact, what annoyed him most was the con-
sciousness that he himself was becoming an
idolater. For he couldn’t help admitting that
he felt much more comfortable when standing
in the quadrangles or strolling in the High
Street with Drysdale in his velvet cap, and silk
gown, and faultless get-up, than when doing the
same things with Hardy in his faded old gown,
shabby loose overcoat, and well-worn trowsers.
He wouldn’t have had Hardy suspect the fact
for all he was worth, and hoped to get over the
feeling soon ; but there it w'as unmistakably.
He wondered whefher Hardy had ever felt any
thing of the kind himself.

Nevertheless, these thoughts did not hinder
him from sleeping soundly, or from getting up
an hour earlier than usual to go and see Drys-
dale start on his expedition.

Accordingly, he was in Drysdale’s rooms
next morning betimes, and assisted at the early
breakfast which was going on there. Blake
was the only other man present. He was going
with Drysdale, and intrusted Tom with a mes-
sage to Miller and the Captain, that he could
not pull in the boat that day, but would pay a
waterman to take his place. As soon as the
gate opened, the three, accompanied by thq
faithful Jack, ani followed by Drysdale’s scout,
bearing overcoats, a splendid water-proof apron
lined with fur, and the rods and creels, sallied
out of college, and sought the livery stables
patronized by the men of St. Ambrose’s. Here
3

they found a dog-cart all ready in the yard,
with a strong Roman-nosed, vicious-looking,
rat-tailed horse in the shafts, called Satan by
Drysdale ; the leader had been sent on to the
first turnpike. The things were packed, and
Jack, the bull-dog, hoisted into the interior in
a few minutes. Drysdale produced a long
straight horn, which he called his yard of tin
(probably because it was made of brass), and
after refreshing himself with a blast or two,
handed it over to Blake, and then mounted the
dog-cart and took the reins. Blake seated
himself by his side ; the help who was to ac-
company them got up behind ; and Jack looked
wisely out from his inside place over the back-
boai'd.

“Are we all right?” said Drysdale, catching
his long tandem whip into a knowing double
thong.

“ All right, sir,” said the head hostler, touch-
ing his cap.

“You’d better have come, my boy,” said
Drysdale to Tom, as they trotted off out of the
yard ; and Tom couldn’t help envying them as
he followed, and watched the dog-cart lessening
rapidly down the empty street, and heard the
notes of the yard of tin, which Blake managed
to make really musical, borne back on the soft
western breeze. It was such a splendid morn-
ing for fishing !

However, it was too late to repent, had he
wished it ; and so he got hack to chapel, and
destroyed the whole effect of the morning
service on Miller’s mind, by delivering Blake’s
message to that choleric coxswain as soon as
chapel was over. Miller vowed for the twen-
tieth time that Blake should be turned out of
the boat, and went off to the Captain’s rooms
to torment him, and consult what was to be
done.

The weather continued magnificent — a soft,
dull gray March day, and a steady wind ; and
the thought of the lucky fisherman, and visions
of creels filled with huge three-pounders, haunt-
ed Tom at lectures, and throughout the day.

At two o’clock he was down at the river.
The college eight was to go down for the first
time in the season to the reaches below Nune-
ham for a good training pull, and he had had
notice, to his great joy, that he W'as to be tried
in the boat. But great, no doubt, as was the
glory, the price was a heavy one. This was
the first time he had been subjected to the ten-
der mercies of Miller, the coxswain, or had pull-
ed behind the Captain ; and it did not take long
to convince him that it was a very different
style of thing from any thing he had as yet been
accustomed to in the freshmen’s crew. The
long steady sweep of the so-called paddle tried
him almost as much as the breathless strain of
the spurt.

Miller, too, was in one of his most relentless
moods. He was angry at Blake’s desertion,
and seemed to think that Tom had had some-
thing to do with it, though he had simply de-
livered the message which had been intrusted

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

to him ; and so, though he distributed rebuke
and objurgation to every man in the boat ex-
cept the Captain, he seemed to our hero to
take particular delight in working him. There
he stood in the stern, the fiery little coxswain,
leaning forward with a tiller-rope in each hand,
and bending to every stroke, shouting his warn-
ings, and rebukes, and monitions to Tom, till
he drove him to his wits’ end. By the time the
boat came back to Hall’s, his arms wei'e so
numb that he could hardly tell whether his oar
was in or out of his hand; his legs were stiff
and aching, and every muscle in his body felt
as if it had been pulled out an inch or two. As
he walked up to college, he felt as if his shoul-
ders and legs had nothing to do with one an-
other ; in short, he had had a very hard day’s
work, and, after going fast asleep at a wine-
party, and trying in vain to rouse himself by a
stroll in the streets, fairly gave in about ten
o’clock, and went to bed without remembering
to sport his oak.

For some hours he slept the sleep of the dead,
but at last began to be conscious of voices, and
the clicking of glasses, and laughter, and scraps
of songs ; and after turning himself once or twice
in bed, to ascertain whether he w'as awake or no,
rubbed his eyes, sat up, and became aware that
something very entertaining to the parties con-
cerned was going on in his sitting-room. After
listening for a minute, he jumped up, threw on
his shooting-coat, and appeared at the door of his
own sitting-room, where he paused a moment to
contemplate the scene which met his astonished
vision. His fire, recently replenished, was burn-
ing brightly in the grate, and his candles on
the table, on which stood his whisky bottle, and
tumblers, and hot water. On his sofa, which
had been wheeled round before the fire, reclined
Drysdale, on his back, in his pet attitude, one
leg crossed over the other, with a paper in his
hand, from which he was singing ; and in the
arm-chair sat Blake, while Jack was coiled on
the rug, turning himself every now and then in
a sort of uneasy protest against his master’s un-
timely hilarity. At first Tom felt inclined to
be angry, but the jolly shout of laughter with
which Drysdale received him, as he stepped out
into the light in night-shirt, shooting-coat, and
dishevelled hair, appeased him at once.

“Why, Brown, you don’t mean to say you
liave been in bed this last half-hour ? We look-
ed into the bed-room, and thought it was emp-
ty. Sit down, old fellow, and make yourself
at home. Have a glass of grog ; it’s first-rate
whisky.”

“Well, you’re a couple of cool hands, I must
.say,” said Tom. “ How did you get in ?”

“Through the door, like honest men,” said
Drysdale. “ You’re- the only good fellow in
college to-night. When -we got back our fires
were out, and we’ve been all round college, and
found all the oaks sported but yours. Never
■sport your oak, old boy ; it’s a bad habit. You
don’t know at what time in the morning you
may entertain angels unawares.”

“ You’re a rum pair of angels, any how,”
said Tom, taking his seat on the sofa. “But
what o’clock is it ?”

“Oh, about half-past one,” said Drysdale.
“We’ve had a series of catastrophes. Never
got into college till near one. I thought we
should never have waked that besotted little
porter. However, here we are at last, you see,
all right.”

“So it seems,” said Tom ; “ but how about
the fishing ?”

“Fishing ! we’ve never thrown a fly all day,”
said Drysdale.

“He is so cursedly conceited about his knowl-
edge of the country,” struck in Blake. “ What
with that, and his awful twist, and his incurable
habit of gossiping, and his blackguard dog, and
his team of a devil and a young female — ”

“Hold your scandalous tongue !” shouted
Drysdale. “ To hear you talking of my twist,
indeed : you ate four chops and a whole chicken
to-day, at dinner, to your own cheek, you
know.”

“ That’s quite another thing,” said Blake.
“Hike to see a fellow an honest grubber at
breakfast and dinner ; but you’ve always got
your nose in the manger. That’s how -we got
all wrong to-day. Brown. You saw what a
breakfast he ate before starting; well, nothing
would satisfy him but another at Whitney.
There we fell in with a bird in mahogany tops,
and, as usual, Dr}’sdale began chumming with
him. He knew all about the fishing of the
next three counties. I dare say he did. My
private belief is, that he is one of the Hunger-
ford town council, who let the fishing there ;
at any rate, he swore it wns no use our going to
Fairford ; the only place where fish would be
in season was Hungerford. Of course Drys-
dale swallowed it all, and nothing would serve
him but that we should turn off for Hungerford
at once. Now, I did go once to Hungerford
races, and I ventured to suggest that w’e should
never get near the place. Not a bit of use; he
knew every foot of the country. It was then
about nine ; he would guarantee that w'e should
be there by twelve at latest.”

“ So w'e should have been, but for accidents,”
struck in Drysdale.

“Well, at any rate, what we did was to drive
into Farringdon instead of Hungerford, both
horses dead done up, at twelve o’clock, after
missing our way about twenty times.”

“ Because you would put in your oar,” said
Drysdale.

“Then grub again,” went on Blake, “and
an hour to bait the horses. I knew we were
as likely to get to Jericho as to Hungerford.
However, he would start; but, luckily, about
two miles from Farringdon, old Satan bowled
quietly into a bank, broke a shaft, and deposit-
ed us then and there. He wasn’t such a fool
as to be going to Hungerford at that time of
day ; the first time in his wicked old life that
I ever remember seeing him do any thing that
pleased me.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ Come, now,” said Drysdale, “ do you mean
to say you ever sat behind a better wheeler,
when he’s in a decent temper ?”

“ Can’t say,” said Blake ; “ never sat behind
him in a good temper, that I can remember.”

“ I’ll trot him five miles out and home in a
dog-cart, on any road out of Oxford, against
any horse you can bring, fora fiver.”

“Done!” said Blake.

“ But were you upset ?” said Tom. “ How
did you get into the bank ?”

“Why, you see,” said Drysdale, “Jessy —
that’s the little blood-mare, my leader — is very
young, and as shy and skittish as the rest of
her sex. We turned a corner sharp, and came
right upon a gypsy encampment. Up she went
into the air in a moment, and then turned right
round and came head on at the cart. I gave
her the double thong across her face to send her
back again, and Satan, seizing the opportunity,
rushed against the bank, dragging her with him,
and snapped the shaft.”

“ And so ended our day’s fishing,” said
Blake. “ And next moment out jumps that
brute Jack and pitches into the gypsy’s dog,
who had come up very naturally to have a look
at what was going on. Down jumps Drysdale,
to see that his beast gets fair play, leaving me
and the help to look after the wreck, and keep
his precious wheeler from kicking the cart into
little pieces.”

“Come now,” said Drysdale, “you must
own we fell on our legs, after all. Hadn’t we
a jolly afternoon ? I’m thinking of turning
tramp, Brown. We spent three or four hours
in that camp, and Blake got spooney on a gypsy
girl, and has written I don’t know how many
songs on them. Didn’t you hear us singing
them just now ?”

“But how did you get the cart mended?”
said Tom.

“ Oh, the tinker patched up the shaft for us
— a cunning old beggar, the p'ere de famille of
the encampment; up to every move on the
board. He wanted to have a deal with me for
Jessy. But ’pon my honor we had a good time
of it. There was the old tinker mending the
shaft, in his fur cap, with a black pipe, one
inch long, sticking out of his mouth ; and the
old brown parchment of a mother, with her
head in a red handkerchief, smoking a ditto
pipe to the tinker’s, who told our fortunes and
talked like a printed book. Then there was his
wife, and the slip of a girl who bowled over
Blake there, and half a dozen ragged brats ;
and a fellow on tramp, not a gypsy — some run-
away apprentice, I take it, but a jolly dog —
with no luggage but an old fiddle, on which he
scraped away uncommonly well, and set Blake
making rhymes as we sat in the tent. You
never heard any of his songs. Here’s one for
each of us ; we’re going to get up the characters
and sing them about the country. Now for a
rehearsal ; I’ll be the tinker.”

“No; you must take the servant-girl,” said
Blake.

“ Well, we’ll toss up for characters when the
time comes. You begin, then; here’s the song ;”
and he handed one of the papers to Blake, who
began singing:

“ Squat on a green plot.

We scorn a bench or settle, oh.

Plying and trying,

A spice of every trade ;

Eazors wo grind.

Ring a pig, or mend a kettle, oh:

Come, what d’ye lack?

Speak it out, my pretty maid.

“ ril set your scissors, while
My granny tells you plainly
Who stole your barley meal,

Your butter or your heart;

Tell if your husband will
Be handsome or ungainly.

Ride in a coach and four, or
Rough it in a cart.”

“Enter Silly Sally; that’s I, for the present,
you see,” said Drysdale ; and he began :

“ Oh dear ! what can the matter be ?

Dear, dear! what can the matter be?

Oh dearl what can the matter be?

All in a pucker be I ;

I’m growing uneasy about Billy Martin,

For love is a casualty desper’t' unsartin.

Law! yonder’s the gypsy as tells folk’s fortin;

I’m half in the mind for to try.”

“Then you must be the old gypsy woman,
Mother Patrico; here’s your part, Brown.”
“But what’s the tune?” said Tom.

“Oh, you can’t miss it; go ahead;” and so
Tom, who was dropping into the humor of the
thing, droned out from the MS. handed to him :

“Chairs to mend.

Old chairs to mend.

Rush-bottom’ d, cane-bottom’d,

Chairs to mend.

Maid, approach.

If thou wouldst know
What the stars
May deign to show."

“Now’, tinker,” said Drysdale, nodding at
Blake, who rattled on :

“Chance feeds us, chance leads us-
Round the land in jollity;

Rag-dealing, nag-stealing,

Everywhere we roam;

Brass mending, ass vending.

Happier than the quality;

Swipes soaking, pipes smoking,

Ev’ry barn a home;

Tink, tink, a tink a tink.

Our life is full of fun, boys ;

Clink tink, a tink a tink.

Our busy hammers ring;

Clink tink, a tink a tink.

Our job will soon be done, boys ;

Then tune we merrily
The bladder and the string.”

Drysdale, as Silly Sally.

“Oh dear! what can the matter be?

Dear, dear ! what can the matter be ?

Oh dear! what can the matter be?

There’s such a look in her eye.

Oh lawk! I declare I be all of a tremble:

My mind it misgives me about Sukey Wimble,

A splatter-faced wench neither civil nor nimble !
She’ll bring Billy to beggary.”

Tom, as Mother Patrico.

“Show your hand;

Come, show your hand !

Would you know
What fate hath planned?

Heaven forefend.

Aye, heav’n forefend!

What may these
Cross lines portend?”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

Blake, as the Tinker.

‘‘ Owl, pheasant, all’s pleasant ;

Nothing comes amiss to ns ;

Hare, rabbit, snare, nab it ;

Cock, or hen, or kite ;

Tom-cat, with strong fat,

A dainty supper is to us ;

Hedge-hog and sedge-frog
To stew is our delight;

Bow, wow, with angry bark
My lady’s dog assails us ;

We sack him up, and clap
A stopper on his din.

Now pop him in the pot ;

His store of meat avails us;

Wife cooks him nice and hot.

And granny tans his skin.”

Drysdale, as Silly Sally.

“Oh lawk! what a calamity!

Oh my ! what a calamity !

Oh dear! what a calamity!

Lost and forsaken be I.

I’m out of my senses, and nought will content me.

But pois’ning Poll Ady who helped circumvent me;
Come tell me the means, for no power shall prevent me;
Oh, give me revenge, or I die.”

Tom, as Mother Patrico.

“Pause a while!

Anon, anon!

Give me time
The stars to con.

True love’s course
Shall yet run smooth;

True shall prove
The favor’d youth.”

Blake, as the Tinker.

“ Tink tink, a tink a tink,

We’ll work and then get tipsy, oh!

Clink tink, on each chink,

Our busy hammers ring.

Tink tink, a tink a tink.

How merry lives a gypsy, oh !

Chanting and ranting;

As happy as a king.”

Drysdale, as Silly Sally.

“Joy! joy! all will end happily!

Joy! joy! all will end happily!

Bill will be constant to I.

Oh, thankee, good dame, here’s my purse and my thim-
ble ;

A fig for Poll Ady and fat Sukey Wimble;

I now could jump over the steeple so nimble;

With joy I be ready to cry.”

Tom, as Mother Patrico.

“William shall
Be rich and great;

And shall prove
A constant mate.

Thank not me.

But thank your fate.

On whose high
Decrees I wait.”

“Well, won’t that do? won’t it bring the
house down ? I’m going to send for dresses to
London, and we’ll start next week.”

“ What, on the tramp, singing these songs ?”
“Yes; we’ll begin in some out-of-the-way
place till we get used to it.”

“And end in the lock-up, I should say,”
said Tom; “ it’ll be a good lark, though. Now,
you haven’t told me how you got home.”

“ Oh, we left camp at about five — ”

“The tinker having extracted a sovereign
from Drysdale,” interrupted Blake.

“ What did you give to the little gypsy your-
self?” retorted Drysdale; “I saw your adieus
under the thorn-bush. Well, we got on all

right to old Murdoch’s, at Kingston Inn, by
about seven, and there we had dinner ; and
after dinner the old boy came in. He and I
are great chums, for I’m often there, and al-
ways ask him in. But that beggar Blake, who
never saw him before, cut me clean out in five
minutes. Fancy his swearing he is Scotch,
and that an ancestor of his in the sixteenth
century married a Murdoch !”

“Well, when you come to think what a lot
of ancestors one must have had at that time,
it’s probably true,” said Blake.

“At any rate, it took,” went on Drysdale.
“ I thought old Murdoch would have wept on
his neck. As it was, he scattered snuff enough
to fill a pint pot over him out of his mull, and
began talking Gaelic. And Blake had the
cheek to jabber a lot of gibberish back to him,
as if he understood every word.”

“ Gibberish ! it was the purest Gaelic,” said
Blake, laughing.

“ I heard a lot of Greek words myself,” said
Drysdale ; “but old Murdoch was too pleased
at hearing his own clapper going, and too full
of whisky to find him out.”

“Let alone that I doubt whether he remem-
bers more than about five words of his native
tongue himself,” said Blake.

“ The old boy got so excited that he went up
stairs for his plaid and dirk, and dressed himself
up in them, apologizing that he could not ap-
pear in the full garb of old Gaul, in honor of
his new-found relative, as his daughter had cut
up his old kilt for ‘ trews for the bairnies ’ dur-
ing his absence from home. Then they took to
more toddy and singing Scotch songs, till at
eleven o’clock they were standing on their chairs,
right hands clasped, each with one foot on the
table, glasses in the other hands, the toddy fly-
ing over the room as they swayed about roaring
like maniacs — what was it ? oh, I have it :

‘ IPr«jf-an-toorey all agree,

B'Mp-an-toorey, it'M^r-an-toorey.’ ”

“ He hasn’t told you that he tried to join us,
and tumbled over the back of his chair into the
dirty-plate basket.”

“A libel! a libel!” shouted Drysdale ; “the
leg of my chair broke, and I stepped down grace-
fully and safely, and when I looked up and saw
what a tottery performance it was, I concluded
to give them a wide berth. It would be no joke
to have old Murdoch topple over on to you. I
left them ‘ wug-an-tooreying,’ and went out to
look after the trap, which was ordered to be at
the door at half-past ten. I found Murdoch’s
hostler very drunk, but sober compared with
that rascally help whom we had been fools
enough to take with us. They had got the trap
out and the horses in, but that old rascal Satan
was standing so quiet that I suspected something
wrong. Sure enough, when I came to look,
they had him up to the cheek on one side of his
mouth, and third bar on the other, his belly-band
buckled across his back, and no kicking-strap.
The old brute was chuckling to himself what he
would do with us as soon as we had started in

TOM BROWN AT OXFOllD.

that trim. It took half an hour getting all
right, as I was the only one able to do any
thing.”

“Yes, you would have said so,” said Blake,
“if you had seen him trying to put Jack up be-
hind. He made six shots with the old dog, and
dropped him about on his head and the broad
of his back as if he had been a bundle of
eels.”

“ The fact is, that that rascally hostler had
made poor old Jack drunk too,” explained Drys-
dale, “and he wouldn’t be lifted straight. How-
ever, we got off at last, and hadn’t gone a mile
before the help (who was maundering away
some cursed sentimental ditty or other behind)
lurched more heavily than usual, and pitched
off into the night somewhere. Blake looked for
him for half an hour, and couldn’t find a hair
of him.”

“You don’t mean to say the man tumbled
off, and you never found him ?” said Tom, in
horror.

“ Well, that’s about the fact,” said Drysdale ;
“ but it isn’t so bad as you think. We had no
lamps, and it was an uncommon bad night for
running by holloas.”

“But a first-rate night for running by scent,”
broke in Blake ; ‘ ‘ the fellow leaned against me
until he made his exit, and I’d have backed
myself to have hit the scent again half a mile
off, if the wind had only been right.”

“He may have broken his neck,” said Tom.

“Can a fellow sing with a broken neck?”
said Drysdale ; “ hanged if I know ! But don’t
I tell you, we heard him maundering on some-
where or other ? and when Blake shouted, he
answered in endearing terms ; and when Blake
swore, he rebuked him piously out of tjie pitch
darkness, and told him to go home and repent.
I nearly dropped off the box for laughing at
them ; and then he ‘ uplifted his testimony, ’ as
he called it, against me, for driving a horse call-
ed Satan. 1 believe he’s a ranting Methodist
spouter.”

‘ ‘ I tried hard to find him,” said Blake ; “for
I should dearly have liked to have kicked him
safely into the ditch.”

“At last Black Will himself couldn’t have
held Satan another minute. So Blake scram-
bled up, and away we came, and knocked into
college at one for a finish : the rest you know.”

“Well, you’ve had a pretty good day of it,”
said Tom, who had been hugely amused ; “but
I should feel nervous about the help, if I were
you.”

“Oh, he’ll come to no grief. I’ll be bound,”
said Drysdale ; “ but Avhat o’clock is it ?”

“Three,” said Blake, looking at his watch
and getting up ; “ time to turn in.”

“The first time I ever heard you say that,”
said Drysdale.

“Yes ; but you forget we were up this morn-
ing before the world was aired. Good-night,
Bi-own.”

And off the two went, leaving Tom to sport
his oak this time, and retire in wonder to bed.

Drysdale was asleep, with Jack curled up on
the foot of the bed, in ten minutes. Blake, by
the help of wet towels and a knotted piece of
whip-cord round his forehead, read Pindar till
the chapel-bell began to ring.

CHAPTER yil.

AN EXPLOSION.

Our hero soon began to feel that he was con-
tracting his first college friendship. The great,
strong, badly-dressed, badly-appoiiited servitor,
who seemed almost at the same time utterly
reckless of, and nervously alive to, the opinion
of all around him, with his bursts of womanly
tenderness and Berserker rage, alternating like
the storms and sunshine of a July day on a
high moorland, his keen sense of humor and
appreciation of all the good things of this life,
the use and enjoyment of which he was so
steadily denying himself from high principle,
had from the first seized powerfully on all
Tom’s sympathies, and was daily gaining more
hold upon him.

Blessed is the man who has the gift of mak-
ing friends ; for it is one of God’s best gifts.
It involves many things, but above all, the
power of going out of one’s self, and seeing and
appreciating whatever is noble and living in
another man.

But even to him who has the gift, it is often
a gi-eat puzzle to find out whether a man is
really a friend or not. The following is rec-
ommended as a test in the case of any man
about whom you are not quite sure ; especial-
ly if he should happen to have more of this
world’s goods, either in the shape of talents,
rank, money, or what not, than you :

Fancy the man stripped stark naked of every
thing in the world, except an old pair of trow-
sers and a shirt, for decency’s sake, without
even a name to him, and dropped down in the
middle of Holborn or Piccadilly. Would you
go up to him then and there, and lead him out
from among the cabs and omnibuses, and take
him to your own home, and feed him, and
clothe him, and stand by him against all the
world, to your last sovereign and your last leg-
of-mutton ? If you wouldn’t do this, you have
no right to call him by the sacred name of
friend. If you would, the odds are that he
would do the same by you, and you may count
yourself a rich man ; for, probably, were friend-
ship expressible by, or convertible into, current
coin of the realm, one such friend would be
worth to a man at least £100,000. How many
millionaires are there in England? I can’t
even guess ; but more by a good many, I fear,
than there are men who have ten real friends.
But friendship is not so expressible or convert-
ible. It is more precious than wisdom ; and
wisdom “can not be gotten for gold, nor shall
rubies be mentioned in comparison thereof.”
Not all the riches that ever came out of earth

TOM BEOWN AT OXEOED.

and sea are worth the assurance of one such
real abiding friendship in your heart of hearts.

But for the worth of a friendship commonly
so called — meaning thereby a sentiment found-
ed on the good dinners, good stories, opera
stalls, and days’ shooting you have gotten or
hope to get out of a man, the snug things in
his gift, and his powers of procuring enjoyment
of one kind or another to your miserable body
or intellect — why, such a friendship as that is
to be appraised easily enough, if you find it
worth your while ; but you will have to pay
your pound of flesh for it one way or another —
you may take your oath of that. If you follow
my advice, you Avill take a £10 note down, and
retire to your crust of bread and liberty.

Tom was rapidly falling into friendship with
Hardy. He was not bound hand and foot and
carried away captive yet, but he was already
getting deep in the toils.

One evening he found himself as usual at
Hardy’s door about eight o’clock. The oak
was open, but he got no answer when he
knocked at the inner door. Nevertheless he
entered, having quite got over all shyness or
ceremony by this time. The room was empty,
but two tumblers and the black bottle stood on
the table, and the kettle was hissing away on
the hob. “Ah,” thought Tom, “he expects
me, I see so he turned his back to the Are
and made himself at home. A quarter of an
hour passed, and still Hardy did not return.
“Never knew him out so long before at this
time of night,” thought Tom. “Pei’haps he’s
at some party. I hope so. It would do him
a deal of good ; and I know he might go out
if he liked. Next term, see if I won’t make
him more sociable. It’s a stupid custom that
freshmen don’t give parties in their first term,
or I’d do it at once. Why won’t he be more
sociable? No, after all, sociable isn’t the
word ; he’s a very sociable fellow at bottom.
What in the world is it that he wants?”

And so Tom balanced himself on the two
hind legs of one of the Windsor chairs, and be-
took himself to pondering what it was exactly
which ought to be added to Hardy to make
him an unexceptionable object of hero-wor-
ship ; when the man himself came suddenly
into the room, slamming his oak behind him,
and casting his cap and gown fiercely on to the
sofa before he noticed our hero.

Tom jumped up at once. “My dear fellow,
what’s the matter?” he said; “I’m sorry I
came in ; shall I go r”

“No — don’t go — sit down,” said Hardy, ab-
ruptly ; and then began to smoke fast -without
saying another word.

Tom waited a few minutes watching him,
and then broke silence again :

“ I am sure something is the matter. Hardy ;
you look dreadfully put out — what is it ?”

“What is it?” said Hardy, bitterly; “oh,
nothing at all — nothing at all ; a gentle lesson
to servitors as to the duties of their position ;
not pleasant, perliaps, for a yoimgster to swal-

low ; but I ought to be used to such things, at
any rate, by this time. I beg your pardon for
seeming put out.”

“Do tell me what it is,” said Tom. “I’m
sure I am very sorry for any thing which an-
noys you.”

“I believe you are,” said Hardy, looking at
him, “and I’m much obliged to you for it.
What do you think of that fellow Chanter’s of-
fering Smith, the junior servitor, ahoy just come
up, a bribe of ten pounds to prick him in at chap-
el when he isn’t there ?”

“The dirty blackguard !” said Tom; “bv
Jove, he ought to be cut. He will be cut, won't
he ? You don’t mean that he really did offer
him the money?”

“I do,” said Hardy, “ and the poor little fel-
low came here after hall to ask me what ho
should do, with tears in his eyes.”

“ Chanter ought to be horsewhipped in
quad,” said Tom. “ I will go and call on Smith
directly. What did you do?”

“Why, as soon as I could master myself
enough not to lay hands on him,” said Hardy,
“ I went across to his rooms where he was en-
tertaining a select party, and just gave him his
choice between writing an abject apology then
and there to my dictation, or having the whole
business laid before the principal to-morrow
morning. He chose the former alternative,
and I made him write such a letter as I don’t
think he will forget in a hurry.”

“That’s good,” said Tom ; “but he ought to
have been hoi'sewhipped too. It makes one’s
fingers itch to think of it. However, Smith’s
all right now.”

“ All right !” said Hardy, bitterly. “ I don't
know wtiat you call ‘ all right.’ Probably the
boy’s self-respect is hurt for life. You can’t
salve over this sort of thing witli an apology-
plaster.” ' ,

“Well, I hope it isn’t so bad as that, ’ said
Tom.

“Wait till you’ve tried it yourself,” said Har-
dy. “I’ll tell you what it is ; one or two things
of this sort — and I’ve seen many more than that
in my time — sink down into you, and leave
marks like a red-hot iron.”

“But, Hardy, now, really, did you ever know
a bribe offered before ?” said Tom.

Hardy thought for a moment. “No,” he
said, “I can’t say that I haA^e; but things as
bad, or nearly as bad, often.” He paused a min-
ute, and then went on; “I tell you, if it were
not for my dear old father, who Avould break his
heart over it, I would cut the whole concern to-
morroAV. I’ve been near doing it twenty times,
and enlisting in a good regiment.”

“ Would it be any better there, though ?” said
Tom, gently, for he felt that he A\ms in a maga-
zine.

“Better! yes, it must bo better,” said Har-
dy; “at any rate, the youngsters there are
marchers and fighters ; besides, one Avould be in
the ranks and know one’s place. Here one is
by AA-ay of being a gentleman — God saA'e the

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

mark ! A young ofBccr, be lie never such a fop
or profligate, must take his turn at guard, and
carry his life in his hand all over the world,
wherever he is sent, or he has to leave the serv-
ice. Service ! yes, that’s the word ; that’s what
makes every young red-coat respectable, though
he mayn’t think it. He is serving his Queen,
his country — the devil, too, perhaps — very like-
ly— but still the other in some sort. He is
bound to it, sworn to it, must do it; more or
less. But a youngster up here, with health,
strength, and heaps of money— Abound to no
earthly service, and clioosing tliat of the devil
and his own lusts, because some service or other
he must have — I want to know where else un-
der the sun you can see such a sight as that ?”

Tom mumbled something to the effect that it
was by no means necessary that men at Oxford,
either rich or poor, need embark in the service
which had been alluded to ; which remark, how-
ever, only seemed to add fuel to the Are. For
Hardy now rose from his chair, and began strid-
ing up and down the room, his right arm be-
hind his back, tlie hand gripping his left elbow,
his left hand brought round in front close to his
body, and holding the bowl of his pipe, from
which he was blowing off clouds in puffs like an
engine just starting with a heavy train. The
attitude was one of a man painfully trying to
curb himself. His eyes burnt like coals under
his deep brows. The man altogether looked
awful, and Tom felt particularly uncomfortable
and puzzled. After a turn or two, Hardy burst
out again :

“And who are they, I should like to know,
these fello^ys who dare to offer bribes to gentle-
men ? How do they live ? What do they do
for themselves or for this university ? By heav-
en, they are mining themselves body and soul,
and making this place, which was meant for the
training of learned and brave and righteous Eng-
lishmen, a lie and a snare. And who tries to
stop them ? Here and there a don is doing his
work like a man ; the rest are either washing
their hands of the business, and spending their
time in looking after those who don’t want look-
ing after, and cramming those who would be
better without the cramming, or else standing
by, cap in hand, and shouting, ‘ Oh young men
of large fortune and great connections ! you fu-
ture dispensers of the good things of this realm !
come to our colleges, and all shall be made pleas-
ant!’ and the shout is taken up by under-grad-
uates, and tradesmen, and horse-dealers, and
cricket-cads, and dog-fanciers, ‘ Come to us, and
us, and us, and we will be your toadies !’ Let
them ; let them toady and cringe to their pre-
cious idols, till they bring this noble old place
down about their ears. Down it will come,
down it must come, for down it ought to come,
if it can find nothing better to worship than rank,
money, and intellect. But to live in the place
and love it too, and see all this going on, and
groan and writhe under it, and not be able — ”

At this point in his speech Hardy came to the
turning-point in his march at the farther end of

3'.t

the room, just opposite his crockery cu])board ;
but, instead of turning as usual, ho paused, let
go the hold on his left elbow, poised himself for
a moment to get a purchase, and then dashed
his right fist full against one of the panels.
Crash went the slight deal boards, as if struck
with a sledge-hammer, and crash went glass and
crockery behind. Tom jumped to his feet, in
doubt whether an assault on him -would not fol-
low ; but the fit was over, and Hardy looked
round at him with a rueful and deprecating face.
For a moment Tom tried to look solemn and
heroic, as befitted the occasion ; but somehow
the sudden contrast flashed on him, and sent him
off, before he could think about it, into a roar
of laughter, ending in a violent fit of coughing;
for in his excitement he had swallowed a mouth-
ful of smoke. Hardy, after holding out for a
moment, gave in to the humor of the thing, and
the appealing look passed into a smile, and the
smile into a laugh, as he turned towards his dam-
aged cupboard, and began opening it carefully in
a legitimate manner.

“I say, old fellow,” said Tom, coming up,
“ I should think you must find it an expensive
amusement. Do you often walk into your cup-
boards like that?”

“ You see. Brown, I am naturally a man of a
very quick temper.”

“So it seems,” said Tom; “but doesn’t it
hurt your knuckles? I should have something
softer put up for me, if I were you ; your bolster,
with a velvet cap on it, or a doctor of divinity’s
gown, now.”

“You be hanged !” said Hardy, as he disen-
gaged the last splinter, and gently opened the
ill-used cupboard door. “ Oh, thunder and turf,
look here !” he went on, as the state of affairs
inside disclosed itself to his view ; “how many
times have I told that thief George never to put
any thing on this side of my cupboard ! Two
tumblers smashed to bits, and I’ve only four in
the world. Lucky we had those two out on the
table.”

“And here’s a great piece out of the sugar-
basin, you see,” said Tom, holding up the broken
article; “and, let me see, one cup and three
saucers gone to glory.”

“ Well, it’s lucky it’s no worse,” said Hardy,
peering over his shoulder ; “I had a lot of odd
saucers, and there’s enough left to last my time.
Never mind the smash, let’s sit down again and
be reasonable.”

Tom sat down in high good-humor. He felt
himself more on an equality with his host than
he had done before, and even thought he might
ventuje on a little mild expostulation or lectur-
ing. But while he was considering how to im-
prove the occasion Hardy began himself.

“ I shouldn’t go so furious. Brown, if I didn’t
care about the place so much. I can’t bear to
think of it as a sort of learning machine, in which
I am to grind for three years to get certain de-
grees which I want. No ; this place, and Cam.-
bridge, and our great schools, are the heart of
dear old England. Did you ever read Secreta-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ry Cook’s address to the Vice-Chancellor, Doc-
tors, etc., in 1636 — more critical times, perhaps,
even than ours? No? Well, listen then;”
and he went to his book-case, took down a book,
and read : “ ‘ The very truth is, that all wise
princes respect the welfare of their estates, and
consider that schools and universities are (as in
a body) the noble and vital parts, which, being
vigorous and sound, send good blood and active
spirits into the veins and arteries, which cause
health and strength ; or, if feeble or ill-affected,
corrupt all the vital parts ; whereupon grow dis-
eases, and, in the end, death itself.’ A low
standard up here for ten years may corrupt half
the parishes in the kingdom.”

“That’s true,” said Tom; “but — ”

“Yes; and so one has a right to be jealous
for Oxford. Every Englishman ought to be.”
“But I really think. Hardy, that you’re un-
reasonable,” said Tom, who had no mind to be
done out of his chance of lecturing his host.

“I am very quick-tempered,” said Hardy,
“as I told you just now.”

“But you’re not fair on the fast set up here.
They can’t help being rich men, after all.”
“No; so one oughtn’t to expect them to be
going through the eyes of needles, 1 suppose.
But do you mean to say you ever heard of a
more dirty, blackguard business than this ?” said
Hardy; “he ought to be expelled the univer-
sity.”

“I admit that,” said Tom ; “but it was only
one of them, you know. I don’t believe there’s
another man in the set who would have done it.”
“ Well, I hope not,” said Hardy; “ I maybe
hard on them — as you say, they can’t help be-
ing rich. But now I don’t want you to think
me a violent one-sided fanatic ; shall I tell you
some of my experiences up here — some passages
from the life of a seivitor?”

“ Do,” said Tom ; “I should like nothing so
well.”

CHAPTER VIII.

II A E D Y ’ S II I S T O n Y .

“ My father is an old commander in the royal
navy. He was a second cousin of Nelson’s Har-
dy, and that, I believe, was what led him into
the navy, for he had no interest whateA'er of his
own. It was a visit which Nelson’s Hardy,
then a young lieutenant, paid to his relative,
my grandfather, which decided my father, he
has told me ; but be always had a strong bent
to sea, though he was a boy of very studious
habits.

“ However, those were times when brave men
who knew and loved their profession couldn’t
be overlooked, and my dear old father fought
his way up step by step — not very fast, certain-
ly, but still fast enough to keep him in heart
about his chances in life. I could show you
the accounts of some of the affairs he was in, in
James’s History, which you. see up on my shelf
there, or I could tell them you myself ; but I hope

some day you will know him, and then you will
hear them in perfection.

‘ ‘ My father was made commander towards the
end of the war, and got a ship, in which he sail-
ed with a convoy of merchantmen from Bristol-
It was the last voyage he ever made in active
service ; but the Admiralty was so well satisfied
with his conduct in it that they kept his ship in
commission two years after peace was declared.
And well they might be ; for in the Spanish
main he fought an action which lasted, on and
off, for two days, with a French sloop of war,
and a privateer, which he always thought was an
American, either of which ought to have been a
match for him. But he had been with Vincent
in the Arrow, and was not likely to think much
of such small odds as that. At any rate he beat
them off, and not a prize could either of them
make out of his convoy, though I believe his
ship was never fit for any thing afterwards, and
W'as broken up as soon as she was out of com-
mission. We have got her compasses, and the
old flag which flew at the peak through the
whole voyage, at home now. It was my fa-
ther’s own flag, and his fancy to have it always
flying. More than half the men were killed or
badly hit — the dear old father among the rest.
A ball took off part of his knee-cap, and he had
to fight the last six hours of the action sitting in
a chair on the quarter-deck ; but he says it
made the men fight better than when he was
among them, seeing him sitting there sucking
oranges.

“ Well, he came home with a stiff leg. The
Bristol merchants gave him the freedom of the
city in a gold box, and a splendidly-mounted
sword with an inscription on the blade, which
hangs over the mantel-piece at home. When
I first left home, I asked him to give me his
old service-sword, Avhich used to hang by the
other, and he gave it me at once, though I was
only a lad of seventeen, as he would give me his
right eye, dear old father, which is the only one
he has now ; the other he lost from a cutlass-
wound in a boarding party. There it hangs, and
those are his epaulettes in the tin case. They
used to lie under my pillow before I had a room
of my own, and many a cowardly down-hearted
fit have they helped to pull me through. Brown ;
and many a mean act have they helped to keep
me from doing. There they are always ; and
the sight of him brings home the dear old man
to me as nothing else does, hardly even his let-
ters, I must be a great scoundrel to go very
wrong with such a father.

“Let’s see — where was I? Oh, j’es ; I
remember. Well, my father got his box and
sword, and some very handsome letters from
several great men. We have them all in a book
at home, and I know them by heart. The ones
he values most are from Colling^vood, and his
old captain, Vincent, and from his cousin. Nel-
son’s Hardy, who didn’t come off very well
himself after the Avar, But my poor old father
neAmr got another ship. For some time he
went up every year to London, and was al-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ways, he says, very kindly received by the peo-
ple in power, and often dined with one and an-
other Lord of the Admiralty who had been an
old mess-mate. But he was longing for em-
ployment; and it used to prey on him while he
was in his prime to feel year after year slipping
away and he still without a ship. But why
should I abuse people and think it hard, when
he doesn’t ? ‘ You see. Jack,’ he said to me the

last time we spoke about it, ‘ after all, I was a
battered old hulk, lame and half-blind. So
was Nelson, you’ll say : but every man isn’t a
Nelson, my boy. And though I might think I
could con or fight a ship as well as ever, I can’t
say other folk who didn’t know me were wrong
for not agreeing with me. Would yon, now.
Jack, appoint a lame and blind man to com-
mand your ship, if you had one ?’ But he left
off applying for work soon after he was fifty (I
just remember the time), for he began to doubt
then whether he was quite so fit to command a
small vessel as a younger man ; and though he
had a much better chance after that of getting
a ship (for William IV. came to the throne,
who knew all about him), he never went near
the Admiralty again. ‘ God forbid,’ he said,

‘ that his Majesty should take me if there’s a
better man to be had.’

“ But I have forgotten to tell you how I came
into the world, and am telling you my father’s
story instead of my own. You seem to like
hearing about it, though, and you can’t under-
stand one without the other. However, when
my father was made commander he married,
and bought, with his prize-money and savings,
a cottage and piece of land in a village on the
south coast, where he left his wife when he went
on his last voyage. They had waited some
years, for neither of them had any money ; but
there never were two people who wanted it less,
or did more good without it to all who came
near them. They had a hard time of it, too,
for my father had to go on half-pay ; and a
commander’s half-pay isn’t much to live upon
and keep a family. For they had a family ;
three, besides me ; but they are all gone. And
my mother, too ; she died when I was quite a
boy, and left him and me alone ; and since
then I have never known Avhat a woman’s love
is, for I have no near delations ; and a man
with such prospects as mine had better keep
down all — however, there’s no need to go into
my notions ; I won’t Avander any more if I can
help it.

‘‘ I knoAV my father Avas very poor Avhen my
mother died, and I think (though he neA'er told
me so) that he had mortgaged our cottage, and
AA’as very near having to sell it at one time.
The expenses of my mother’s illness had been
A'ery heavy; I know a good deal of the best
furniture Avas sold — all, indeed, except a hand-
some arm-chair and a little Avork-table of my
mother’s. She used to sit in the chair, in her
last illness, on our laAvn, and Avatch the sunsets.
And he sat by her, and Avatched her, and some-
times read the Bible to her; Avhile I played

about Avith a big black dog aa'C had then, named
Vincent, after my father’s old captain ; or witli
Burt, his old boatsAvain, who came Avith his wife
to live with my father before I can recollect,
and lives Avith us still. He did every thing in
the garden and about the house ; and in the
house, too, Avhen his Avife was ill, for he can
turn his hand to any thing, like most old salts.
It Avas he who rigged up the mast and Aveather-
cock on the lawn, and used to let me run up
the old flag on Sundays, and on my father’s
Avedding-day, and on the anniversary of his ac-
tion, and of Vincent’s action in the Arrow.

“After my mother’s death my father sent
away all the servants, for the boatsAvain and
his wife ai-e more like friends. I Avas Avrong to
say that no woman has loved me since my
mother’s death, for I believe dear old Nanny
loves me as if I were her OAvn child. My fa-
ther, after this, used to sit silent for hours to-
gether, doing nothing but look over the sea ;
but, except for that, was not much changed.
After a short time he took to teaching me to
read, and from that time I never Avas aAvay from
him for an hour, except Avhen I was asleep, un-
til I Avent out into the Avorld.

“As I told you, my father was naturally fond
of study. He had kept up the little Latin he
had learned as a boy, and had always been
reading A\diatever he could lay his hands on ;
so that I couldn’t have had a better tutor.
They were no lessons to me, particularly the
geography ones ; for there Avas no part of the
world’s sea-coast that he did not know, and
could tell me what it and the people who lived
there were like ; and often Avhen Burt happened
to come in at such times, and heard Avhat ray-
father Avas talking about, he Avould giA^e us some
of his adventui’es and ideas of geography-, which
were very queer indeed.

“ When I was nearly- ten, a neAv vicar came.
He was about my father’s age, and a AvidoAver,
like him ; only he had no child. Like him,
too, he had no private fortune, and the living is
a A'ery poor one. He soon became very inti-
mate Avith us, and made my father his church-
Avarden ; and, after being pi-esent at some of our
lessons, volunteered to teach me Greek, which,
he said, it Avas time I should begin to learn.
This was a great relief to my father, Avho had
bought a Greek grammar and dictionary-, and
a delectus, some time before ; and I could see
him often, dear old father, Avith his glass in his
eye, puzzing aAvay over them when I was play--
ing, or reading Cook’s Voyages, for it had groAvn
to be the wish of his heart that I should be a
scholar, and should go into orders. So he was
going to teach me Greek himself, for there Avas
no one in the parish except the vicar Avho kncAv
a Avord of any- thing but English — so that he
could not have got me a tutor, and the thought
of sending me to school had ncA-er crossed his
mind, even if he could haA-e afforded to do
either. My father only sat by at the Greek
lessons, and took no part ; but first he began to
put in a word here and there, and then Avould

TOM BROWN AT OXTORD.

repeat words and sentences himself, and look
over my book while I construed, and very soon
was just as regular a pupil of the vicar’s as I.

“ The vicar was for the most part very proud
of his pupils, and the kindest of masters; but
every now and then he used to be hard on my
father, which made me furious, though he never
seemed to mind it. I used to make mistakes
on purpose at those times, to show that I was
worse than he, at any rate. But this only hap-
pened after we had had a political discussion at
dinner ; for we dined at three, and took to our
Greek afterwards, to suit the vicar’s time, who
was generally a guest. My father is a Tory,
of course, as you may guess, and the vicar was
a Liberal, of a very mild sort, as I have since
thought ; ‘ a Whig of ’88,’ he used to call him-
self. But he was in favor of the Reform Bill,
which was enough for my father, who lectured
him about loyalty, and opening the flood-gates
to revolution ; and used to call up old Burt
from the kitchen, where he was smoking his
pipe, and ask him what he used to think of the
Radicals on board ship ; and Burt’s regular re-
ply was :

“‘Skulks, yer honor, regular skulks. I
wouldn’t give the twist of a fiddler’s elbow for
all the lot of ’em as ever pretended to handle a
swab or hand a topsail.’

“The vicar always tried to argue, but, as
Burt and I were the only audience, my father
was always triumphant ; only he took it out of
us afterwards at the Greek. Often I used to
think, when they were reading history, and
talking about the characters, that my father was
much the most liberal of the tAvo.

“ About this time he bought a small half-
decked boat of ten tons, for he and Burt agreed
that I ought to learn to handle a boat, although
I Avas not to go to sea ; and Avhen they got the
vicar in the boat on the summer evenings (for
he Avas ahvays ready for a sail though he Avas a
very bad sailor), I believe they used to steer as
near the Avind as possible, and get into short
chopping seas on purpose. But I don’t think
he Avas ever frightened, though he used some-
times to be A'ery ilk

“And so I AA’cnt on, learning all I could
from my father, and the vicar, and old Burt, till
I Avas sixteen. By that time I had begun to
think for myself ; and I had made up my mind
that it Avas time I should do something. No
boy ever Avanted to leave home less, I believe ;
but I saAV that I must make a move if I was
ever to be Avhat my father Avished me to be.
So I spoke to the vicar, and he quite agreed
Avith me, and made inquiries among his ac-
quaintance ; and so, before I was seventeen, I
was offered the place of under-master in a com-
mercial school, about twenty miles from home.
The vicar brought the offer, and my father AA'as
very angry at first; but Ave talked him over,
and so I took the situation.

“And I am A'ery glad I did, although there
were many draAvbacks. The salary Avas £35 a
year, and for that I had to drill all the boys in

English, and arithmetic, and Latin, and to teach
the Greek grammar to the five or six who paid
extra to learn it. Out of school I had to be al-
ways Avith them, and was responsible for the dis-
cipline. It was Aveary Avork very often, and
Avhat seemed the worst part of it to me, at the
time, Avas the trade spirit Avhich leavened the
Avhole of the establishment. The master and
owner of the school, Avho AA-as a keen vulgar
man, but always civil enough to me, thought of
nothing but Avhat would pay. And this seemed
to be what filled the school. Fathers sent
their boys because the place was so practical,
and nothing was taught (except as extras)
Avhich Avas not to be of so-called real use to the
boys in the world. We had our Avork quite
clearly laid down for us ; and it Avas, not to put
the boys in the Avay of getting real knowledge
or understanding, or any of the things Solomon
talks about, but to put them in the AA^ay of get-
ting on.

“I spent three years at that school, and in
that time I grounded myself pretty well in Lat-
in and Greek — better, I believe, than I should
have done if I had been at a first-rate school
myself ; and I hope I did the boys some good,
and taught some of them that cunning was not
the best quality to start in life Avith. And I
Avas not often A'ery unhappy, for I could alwaA's
look forAvard to my holidays Avith my father.

“ HoAveA^er, I oaa’u that I neA'er Avas better
pleased than one Christmas, when the vicar
came over to our cottage, and bi'ought with him
a letter from the Principal of St. Ambrose Col-
lege, Oxford, appointing me to a servitorship.
My father was even more delighted than I, and
that evening produced a bottle of old rum, Avhich
Avas part of his ship’s stock, and had gone all
through his action, and been in his cellar eA'er
since. And Ave three in the parlor, and old
Burt and his Avife in the kitchen, finished it
that night ; the boatswain, I must OAvn, taking
the lion’s share. The vicar took occasion, in
the course of the evening, to hint that it AAms
only poor men Avho took these places at the uni-
versity ; and that I might find some inconve-
nience, and suffer some annoyance by not being
exactly in the same position as other men. But
my dear old father Avould not hear of it ; I Avas
noAV going to be amorfg the very pick of Eng-
lish gentlemen — Avhat could it matter whether
I had money or not ? That Avas the last thing
Avhich real gentlemen thought of. Besides,
why Avas I to be so very poor ? he should be
able to allow me Avhatever would be necessary
to make me comfortable. ‘ But, Jack,’ he said
suddenly, later in the evening, ‘ one meets loAV
fellows everywhere. You haA^e met them, I
knoAv, often at that confounded school, and Avill
meet them again. Never you be ashamed of
your poverty, my boy.’ I promised readi-
ly enough, for I didn’t think I could be more
tried in that Avay than I had been already. I
had lived for three years among people Avhose
class notoriously measured all things by a mon-
ey standard ; noAV that Avas all over, I thought.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

It’s easy making promises in the dark. The
vicar, however, would not let the matter rest ;
so we resolved ourselves into a Committee of
Ways and Means, and my father engaged to lay
before us an exact statement of liis affairs next
day. I went to the door with the vicar, and
he told me to come and see him in the morn-
ing.

“ I half-guessed what he wanted to see me
for. He knew all my father’s affairs perfectly
well, and wished to prepare me for what was to
come in the evening. ‘Your father,’ he said,
‘is one of the most liberal men I have ever
met ; he is almost the only person who gives
any thing to the schools and other charities in
this parish, and he giites to the utmost. You
would not wish him, I know, to cut off these
gifts, which bring the highest reward with them,
when they are made in the spirit in which he
makes them. Then he is getting old, and you
would never like him to deny himself the com-
forts (and few enough they are) which he is
used to. He has nothing but his half-pay to
live on ; and out of that he pays £50 a year for
insurance ; for he has insured his life, that you
may have something beside the cottage and land
when he dies. I only tell you this that you
may know the facts beforehand. I am sure
you would never take a penny from hirn if you
could help it. But he won’t be happy unless
he makes you some allowance, and he can do it
without crippling himself. He has been paying
off an old mortgage on his property here for
many years, by installments of £40 a year, and
the last was paid last Michaelmas ; so that it
will not inconvenience him to make you that
allowance. Now you will not be able to live
properly upon that up at Oxford, even as a
servitor. I speak to you now, my dear Jack,
as your oldest friend (except Burt), and you
must allow me the privilege of an old friend.
I have more than I want, and I propose to make
up your allowance at Oxford to £80 a year,
and upon that I think you may manage to get
on. Now it will not be quite candid, but I
think, under the circumstances, we shall be jus-
tified in representing to your father that £40 a
year will be ample for him to allow you. You
see what I mean ?’

“ I remember almost word for v/ord what the
vicar said ; for it is not often in one’s life that
one meets with this sort of friend. At first I
thanked him, but refused to take any thing
from him. I had saved enough, I said, to carry
me through Oxford. But he would not be put
off ; and I found that his heart was as much
set on making me an allowance himself as on
saving my father. So I agreed to take £25 a
year from him.

“ When we met again in the evening to hear
my father’s statement, it was as good as a play
to see the dear old man, with his spectacles on
and his papers before him, proving in some won-
derful way that he could easily allow me at least
£80 or £100 a year. I believe it cost the vicar
some twinges of conscience to persuade him

that all I should want would be £40 a year ;
and it was very hard work ; but at last we suc-
ceeded, and it was so settled. During the next
three weeks the preparations for my start occu-
pied us all. The vicar looked out all his old
classics, which he insisted that I should take.
There they stand on that middle shelf — all well
bound, you see, and many of them old college
prizes. My father made an expedition to tlie
nearest town, and came back with a large new
portmanteau and hat-box ; and the next day
the leading tailor came over to fit me out with
new clothes. In fact, if I had not resisted
stoutly, I should have come to college with
half the contents of the cottage, and Burt as a
valet ; for the old boatswain was as bad as the
other two. But I compromised the matter with
him by accepting his pocket compass and the
picture of the brig which hangs there ; the two
things, next to his old wife, which he values, I
believe, most in the world.

“ Well, it is now two years last October since
I came to Oxford as a servitor ; so you see I
have pretty nearly finished my time here. I
was more than twenty then — much older, as you
know, than most freshmen. I dare say it was
partly owing to the difference in age, and part-
ly to the fact that I knew no one when I came
up, but mostly to my own bad management and
odd temper, that I did not get on better than I
have done with the men here. Sometimes I
think that our college is a bad specimen, for I
have made several friends among out-college
men. At any rate, the fact is, as you have no
doubt found out — and I hope I haven’t tried at
all to conceal it — that I am out of the pale, as
it were. In fact, with the exception of one of
the tutors, and one man who was a freshman
with me, I do not know a man in college e:^-
cept as a mere speaking acquaintance.

“ I had been rather thrown off my balance, I
think, at the change in my life, for at first I
made a great fool of myself. I had believed too
readily what my father had said, and thought
that at Oxford I should see no more of what I
had been used to. Here I thought that the
last thing a man would be valued by would be
the length of his purse, and that no one would
look down upon me because I performed some
services to the college in return for my keep,
instead of paying for it in money.

“ Yes, I made a great fool of myself, no doubt
of that ; and, what is worse, I broke my promise
to my father — I often was ashamed of my pov-
erty, and tried at first to hide it, for somehow
the spirit of the place carried me along with it.
I couldn’t help wishing to be thought of and
treated as an equal by the men. It’s a very
bitter thing for a proud, shy, sensitive fellow,
as I am by nature, to have to bear the sort of
assumption and insolence one meets with. I
furnished my rooms well, and dressed well.
Ah ! you may stare ; but this is not the furni-
ture I started with ; I sold it all when I came
to my senses, and put in this tumble-down sec-
ond-hand stuff, and I have worn out my fine

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

clothes. I know I’m not well dressed now.
(Tom nodded ready acquiescence to this posi-
tion.) Yes, though I still wince a little now
and then — a good deal oftener than I like — I
don’t carry any false colors. I can’t quite con-
quer the feeling of shame (for shame it is, I am
afraid), but at any rate I don’t try to hide my
poverty any longer ; I haven’t for these eighteen
months. I have a grim sort of pleasure in
pushing it in every body’s face.” (Tom assent-
ed with a smile, remembering how excessively
uncomfortable Hardy had made him by this lit-
tle peculiarity the first time he was in his
rooms.) “ The first thing which opened my
eyes a little was the conduct of the tradesmen.
My bills all came in within a week of the de-
livery of the furniture and clothes ; some of
them wouldn’t leave the things without pay-
ment. I was very angry and vexed ; not at the
bills, for I had my savings, which were much
more than enough to pay for every thing. But
I knew that these same tradesmen never
thought of asking for payment under a year,
oftener two, from other men. Well, it was a les-
son. Credit for gentlemen-commoners, ready-
money dealings with servitors ! I owe the Ox-
ford tradesmen much for that lesson. If they
would only treat every man who comes up as a
servitor, it would save a deal of misery.

‘ ‘ My cure was completed by much higher
folk, though. I can’t go through the whole
treatment, but will give you a specimen or two
of the doses, giving precedence (as is the way
here) to those administered by the highest in
rank. I got them from all sorts of people, but
none did me more good than the lords’ pills.
Among other ways of getting on, I took to spar-
ring, which was then very much in vogue. I am
a good hand at it, and very fond of it ; so that it
wasn’t altogether flunkeyism, I’m glad to think.
In my second term two or three fighting men
came down from London, and gave a benefit at
the Weirs. I was there, and set to with one of
them. We were well matched, and both of us
did our very best ; and when we had had our
turn we drew down the house, as they say.
Several young tufts and others of the faster men
came up to me afterwards and complimented
me. They did the same by the professional,
but it didn’t occur to me at the time that they
put us both in the same category.

‘ ‘ I am free to own that I was really pleased
two days afteiuvards, when a most elaborate
flunkey brought a card to my door inscribed,
‘The Viscount Philippine, Ch. Ch., at home
to-night, eight o’clock — sparring.’ Luckily, I
made a light dinner, and went sharp to time
into Christ Church. The porter directed me to
the noble Viscount’s rooms ; they were most
splendid, certainly — first-floor rooms in Peck-
water. I was shown into the large room, which
was magnificently furnished and lighted. A
good space was cleared in the centre ; there
were all sorts of bottles and glasses on the side-
board. There might have been twelve or four-
teen men present, almost all in tufts or gentle-

men-commoners’ caps. One or two of our col-
lege I recognized. The fighting-man was also
there, stripped for sparring, which none of the
rest were. It was plain that the sport had not
begun; I think he was doing some trick of
strength as I came in. My noble host came
forward with a nod, and asked me if I would
take any thing, and when I declined, said,
‘ Then will you put on the gloves ?’ I looked
at him rather surprised, and thought it an odd
way to treat the only stranger in his own rooms.
However, I stripped, put on the gloves, and one
of the others came forward to tie them for me.
While he was doing it I heard my host say to
the man, ‘ A five-pound note, mind, if you do it
within the quarter of a^ hour.’ ‘ Only half-
minute time, then, my lord,’ he answered.
The man who was tying my gloves said, in a
low voice, ‘ Be steady ; don’t give him a chance
to knock you down.’ It flashed across me in a
moment now why I Avas there ; but it was too
late to draw back, so we stood up and began
sparring. I played very steadily and light at
first, to see whether my suspicions were AA^ell
founded, and in two minutes I Avas satisfied.
My opponent tried every dodge to bring on a
rally, and when he aa'us foiled I could see that
he Avas shifting his glove. I stopped and in-
sisted that his gloves should be tied, and then
we went on again.

“ I kept on the defensive. The man was in
bad training, and luckily I had the advantage
by an inch or so in length of arm. Before five
minutes Avere over, I had caught enough of the
by-standers’ remarks to know that my noble host
had betted a pony that I should be knocked doAvn
in a quarter of an hour. My one object noAV
was to make him lose his money. My oppo-
nent did his utmost for his patron, and fairly
winded himself in his efforts to get at me. He
had to call time twice himself. I said not a
word ; my time aa^ouM come, I knew, if I could
keep on my legs, and of this I had little fear.
I held myself together, made no attack, and my
length of arm gaA^e me the advantage in every
counter. It Avas all I could do, though, to keep
clear of his rushes as the time drew on. On he
came time after time, careless of guai'ding, and
he Avas full as good a man as I. ‘Time’s up;
it’s past the quarter.’ ‘ No, by Jove, half a min-
ute yet ; now’s your time,’ said my noble host
to his man, Avho ansAvered by a last rush. I
met him as before Avith a steady counter ; but
this time my blow got home under his chin, and
he staggered, lost his footing, and AA^ent fairly
OA'er on to his back.

“ Most of the by-standers seemed delighted,
and some of them hurried tOAV'ards me. But I
tore off the gloA-es, flung them on the ground,
and turned to my host. I could hardly speak,
but I made an effort, and said, quietly, ‘ You
haA^e brought a stranger to your rooms, and have
tried to make him fight for your amusement ;
noAV I tell you it is a blackguard act of yours —
an act Avhich no gentleman would haA'e done.’
My noble host made no remark. I threAv on

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

my coat and waistcoat, and then turned to the
rest, and said, '■Gentlemen would not have stood
by and seen it done.’ I went up to the side-
board, uncorked a bottle of Champagne, and
half filled a tumbler, before a word was spoken.
Then one of the visitors stepped forward and
said, ‘ Mr. Hai'dy, I hope you won’t go ; there
has been a mistake ; we did not know of this. I
am sure many of us are very sorry for what has
occurred ; stay and look on, we will all of us
spar.’ I looked at him, and then at my host, to
see whether the latter joined in the apology.
Not he ; he was doing the dignified sul%, and
most of the rest seemed to me to be with him.
‘ Will any of you spar with me?’ I said, taunt-
ingly, tossing oif the Champagne. ‘ Certainly,’
the new speaker said directly, ‘ if you wish it,
and are not too tired. I will spar with you my-
self ; you will, Avon’t you, James ?’ and he turn-
ed to one of the other men. If any of them had
backed him by a word I should probably have
staid. ScA-eral of them, I learned afterwards,
would have liked to have done so, but it was an
awkward scene to interfere in. I stopped a mo-
ment, and then said, with a sneer, ‘ You’re too
small, and none of the other gentlemen seem in-
clined to offer.’

“I saw that I had hurt him, and felt pleased
at the moment that I had done so. I was noAV
ready to start, and I could not think of any
thing more unpleasant to say at the moment ;
so I went up to my antagonist, who Avas stand-
ing with the gloves on still, not quite knowing
what to be at, and held out my hand. ‘ I can
shake hands with you, at any rate,’ I said ; ‘ you
only did what you Avere paid for in the regular
Avay of business, and you did your best.’ He
looked rather sheepish, but held out his gloved
hand, Avhich I shook. ‘ Noav I have the honor
to wish you all a very good-evening ;’ and so I
left the place and got home to my own rooms,
and sat down there with several ncAV ideas in
my head. On the whole, the lesson Avas not a
very bitter one, for I felt that I had had the best
of the ganae. The only thing I really Avas sor-
ry for was my own insolence to the man who
had come foiuvard as a peace-maker. I had re-
marked his face before. I don’t knoAv hoAV it is
with you, but I can never help looking at a tuft
— the gold tassel draws one’s eyes somehow :
and then it’s an awful position, after all, for
mere boys to be placed in. So I knew his face
before that day, though I had only seen him two
or three times in the street. Now it was much
more clearly impressed on my mind ; and I call-
ed it up and looked it over, half hoping that I
should detect something to justify me to my-
self, but without success. However, I got the
whole affair pretty well out of my head by bed-
time.

“ While I was at breakfast the next morn-
ing, my scout came in Avith a face of the most
ludicrous importance, and quite a deferential
manner. I declare I don’t think he has ever
got back since that day to his original free-and-
easy swagger. He laid a card on my table.

paused a moment, and then said, ‘ His ludship is
houtside Avatin’, sir.’

“ I had had enough of lords’ cards ; and the
scene of yesterday rose painfully before me as
I threAV the card into the fire without looking
at it, and said, ‘ Tell him I am engaged.’

“My scout, Avith something like a shudder at
my audacity, replied, ‘His ludship told me to
say, sir, as his bis’ness Avas very particular, so
hif you Avas engaged he Avould call again in ’arf
an hour.’

“ ‘ Tell him to come in, then, if he Avon’t
take a civil hint.’ I felt sure Avho it Avould be,
but hardly kneAV whether to be pleased or an-
noyed, when in another minute the door opened,
and in Avalked the peace-maker. I don’t know
which of us was most embarrassed ; he walked
straight up to me without lifting his eyes, and
held out his hand, saying, ‘ I hope, Mr. Hardy,
you Avill shake hands with me now.’

“‘Certainly, my lord,’ I said, taking his
hand ; ‘ I am sorry for what I said to you yes-
terday, Avhen my blood Avas up.’

“ ‘You said no more than Ave deserved,’ he
answered, twirling his cap by the long gold tas-
sel; ‘I could not be comfortable Avithout com-
ing to assure you again myself that neither I,
nor, I belieAm, half the men in Philippine’s
rooms 3'esterday, knew any thing of the bet. I
really can not tell jou hoAV annoyed I liaA'e
been about it.’

“ I assured him that he might make himself
quite easy, and then remained standing, ex-
pecting him to go, and not knoAving exactly
Avhat to say further'. But he begged me to go
on with my breakfast, and sat down, and then
asked me to give him a cup of tea, as he had
not breakfasted. So in a feAv minutes Avewere
sitting opposite one another over tea and bread-
and-butter, for he didn’t ask for, and I didn’t
offer, any thing else. It Avas rather a trying
meal, for each of us was doing all he could to
make out the other. I only hope I Avas as
pleasant as he was. After breakfast he Avent,
and I thought the acquaintance Avas probably
at an end ; he had done all that a gentleman
need have done, and had well-nigh healed a
raw place in my mental skin.

“ But I mistaken. Without intruding him-
self on me, he managed somehoAV or another to
keep on building up the acquaintance little by
little. For some time I looked out very jealous-
ly for any patronizing airs, and, CA-en after I
was convinced that he had nothing of the sort
in him, avoided him as much as I could, though
he Avas the most pleasant and best - informed
man I kncAV. HoAvever, Ave became intimate,
and I saAV a good deal of him, in a quiet
Avay, at his OAvn rooms. I Avouldn’t go to his
parties, and asked him not to come to me here,
for my horror of being thought a tuft-hunter
had become almost a disease. He was not so
old as I, but he Avas just leaving the university,
for he had come up early, and lords’ sons are al-
lowed to go out in two years — I suppose because
the authorities think they will do less harm

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

here in two than three years ; but it is some-
what hard on poor men, Avho have to earn their
bread, to see such a privilege given to those
who want it least. When he left, he made me
promise to go and pay him a visit — which I did
in the long vacation, at a splendid place up in
the North, and enjoyed myself more than I care
to own. His father, who is quite worthy of his
son, and all his family, were as kind as people
could be.

“Well, among other folk I met there a young
sprig of nobility who was coming up here the
next term. He had been brought up abroad,
and, I suppose, knew very few men of his own
age in England. He was not a bad style of
boy, but rather too demonstrative, and not
strong-headed. He took to me wonderfully,
was delighted to hear that I was up at Oxford,
and talked constantly of how much we should
see of one another. As it happened, I was al-
most the first man he met when he got off the
coach at the ‘Angel,’ at the beginning of his
first term. He almost embraced me, and noth-
ing would serve but I must dine with him at
the inn, and we spent the evening together, and
parted dear friends. Two days afterwards we
met in the street ; he was with two other young-
sters, and gave me a polished and distant bow ;
in another week he passed me as if we had nev-
er met.

“I don’t blame him, poor boy! My only
wonder is, that any of them ever get through
tliis place without being thoroughly spoilt.
From Vice-Chancellor down to scout’s boy,
the whole of Oxford seems to be in league to
turn their heads, even if they come up with
them set on straight, which toadying servants
at home take care shall never happen if they
can hinder it. The only men who would do
them good up here, both dons and under-grad-
uates, keep out of their way, very naturally.
Gentlemen - commoners have a little better
chance, though not much, and seem to me to be
worse than the tufts, and to furnish most of
their toadies.

“ Well, are you tired of my railing ? I dare
say I am rabid about it all. Only it does go
to my heart to think what this place might be,
and what it is. I see I needn’t give you any
more of my experience.

“ You’ll understand now some of the things
that have puzzled you about me. Oh ! I know
they did ; you needn’t look apologetic. I don’t
wonder, or blame you. I am a very queer-
bird for the pei’ch I have lit on ; I know that
as well as any body. The only wonder is that
you ever took the trouble to try to lime me.
Now have another glass of toddy. Why ! it is
near twelve. I must have one pipe and turn
in. No Aristophanes to-night.”

CHAPTER IX.

“a bkown bait.”

Tom’s little exaltation in his own eyes con-
sequent on the cupboard-smashing escapade of
his friend was not to last long. Not a week
had elapsed before he himself arrived suddenly
in Hardy’s room in as furious a state of mind
as the other had so lately been in, allowing for
the difiei-ence of the men. Hardy looked up
from his books and exclaimed :

‘ ‘ What’s the matter ? Where have you been
to-night ? You look fierce enough to sit for a
portrait of Sanguinoso Volcanoni, the bandit.”
“ Been !” said Tom, sitting down on the spare
Windsor chair, ivhich he usually occupied, so
hard as to make it crack again ; “ been ! I’ve
been to a wine party at Hendon’s. Do you
’know any of that set ?’’

“No, except Grey, who came into residence
in the same term with me ; we have been read-
ing for degree together. You must have seen
him here sometimes in the evenings.”

“ Yes, I remember : the fellow with a stiff
neck, who won’t look you in the face.”

“Aye; but he is a sterling man at the bot-
tom, I can tell you.”

“Well, he wasn’t there. You don’t know
any of the rest?”

“No.”

“And never went to any of their parties?”
“No.”

“You’ve had no loss, I can tell you,” said
Tom, pleased that the ground was clear for him.
“I never was among such a set of w-aspish,
dogmatical, overbearing fellows in my life.”

“ Why, -what in the name of fortune have
they been doing to you? How did you fall
among such Philistines?”

“I’m such an easy fool, you see,” said Tom,
“ I go off directly' with any fellow that asks
me ; fast or slow, its all the same. I never
think twiee about the matter, and generally I
like all the fellows I meet, and enjoy every
thing. But just catch me at another of their
stuck-up wines, that’s all!”

“But you won’t tell me what’s the matter.”
“Well, I don’t know why Hendon should
have asked me. He can’t think me a likely
card for a convert, I should think. At any
rate, he asked me to wine, and I went as usual.
Every thing was in capital style (it don’t seem
to be any part of their creed, mind you, to drink
bad wine), and awfully gentlemanly and deco-
rous.”

“Yes, that’s aggravating, I admit. It would
have been in better taste, of course, if they had
been a little blackguard and indecorous. No
doubt, too, one has a right to expect bad wine
at Oxford. Well ?”

Hardy spoke so gravely that Tom had to look
across at him for half a minute to see whether
he was in earnest. Then he went on with a
grin.

“There was a piano in one corner, and mus-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

lit! curtains— I give you my wovd, muslin cur-
tains, besides the stuff ones.”

“ You don’t say so !” said Hardy ; “ put up,
no doubt, to insult you. No wonder you look-
ed so furious when you came in. Any thing
else ?”

“Let me see — yes — I counted threo sorts of
scents on the mantel-piece, besides Eau-de-Co-
logne. But I could have stood it all well enough
if it hadn’t been for their talk. From one thing
to another they got to cathedrals, and one of
them called St. Paul’s ‘ a disgrace to a Chris-
tian city.’ I couldn’t stand that, you know. I
was always bred to I’espect St. Paul’s ; weren’t
you ?”

“My education in that line was neglected,”
said Hardy, gravely. “ And so you took up the
cudgels for St, Paul’s ?”

“Yes, I plumped out that St. Paul’s was the
finest cathedral in England. You’d have thought
I had said that lying was one of the cardinal
virtues — one or two just treated me to a sort of
pitying sneer, but my neighbors were down upon
me with a vengeance. I stuck to my text,
though, and they drove me into saying I liked
the Ratcliffe more than any building in Oxford ;
which I don’t believe I do, now I come to think
of it. So when they couldn’t get me to budge
for their talk, they took to telling me that every
body who knew any thing about church arch-
itecture was against me, of course meaning
that I knew nothing about it — for the matter of
that, I don’t mean to say that I do ” — Tom
paused ; it had suddenly oecurred to him that
there might be some reason in the rough hand-
ling he had got.

“But what did you say to the authorities?”
said Hardy, who was greatly amused.

“ Said I didn’t care a straw for them,” said
Tom; “there was no right or wrong in the
matter, and I had as good a right to my opin-
ion as Pugin — or whatever his name is — and
the rest.”

‘ ‘ What heresy ! ” said Hardy, laughing ; ‘ ‘ you
caught it for that, I suppose ?”

“Didn’t I! They made such a noise over
it, that the men at the other' end of the table
stopped talking (they were all freshmen at our
end), and when they found what was up, one
of the older ones took me in hand, and I got a
lecture about the Middle Ages and the monks.
I said I thought England was well rid of the
monks ; and then we got on to Protestantism,
and fasting, and apostolic succession, and pas-
sive obedience, and I don’t know what all. I
only know I was tired enough of it before coffee
eame ; but I couldn’t go, you know, with all of
them on me at once, could I ?”

“Of course not ; you were like the six thou-
sand unconq[uerable British infantry at Al-
buera. You held your position by sheer fight-
ing, suffering fearful loss.”

“ Well,” said Tom, laughing, for he had talk-
ed himself into good humor again, “ I dare say
I talked a deal of nonsense; and, when I come
to think it over, a good deal of what some of

them said had something in it. I should like
to hear it again quietly; but there were others
sneering and giving themselves airs, and that
puts a fellow’s back up.”

“Yes,” said Hardy, “a good many of the
weakest and vainest men who come up take to
this sort of thing now. They can do nothing
themselves, and get a sort of platform by going
in for the High-Church business from which to
look down on their neighbors.”

“That’s just what I thought,” said Tom;
“they tried to push mother Church, mother
Church, down my throat at every turn. I’m
as fond of the Church as any of them, but I
don’t want to be jumping up on her back every
minute, like a sickly chicken getting on the old
hen’s back to w'arm its feet whenever the
ground is cold, and fancying himself taller than
all the rest of the brood.”

“You were unlucky,” said Hardy; “there
are some very fine fellows among them.”

“Well, I haven’t seen much of them,” said
Tom, “and I dont want to see any more; for
it seems to me all a Gothic-mouldings and
man-millinery business.”

“You won’t think so when you’ve been up a
little longer,” said Hardy, getting up to make
tea ; which operation he had hardly commenced
when a knock came at the door, and, in answer
to Hardy’s “Come in,” a slight, shy man ap-
peared, who hesitated, and seemed inclined to
go when he saw that Hardy was not alone.

“Oh, come in and have a cup of tea. Grey.
You know Brown, I think ?” said Hardy, look-
ing round from the fire, where he was filling
his tea-pot, to watch Tom’s reception of the
new-comer.

Our hero took his feet down, drew himself
up, and made a solemn bow, which Grey re-
turned, and then slid nervously into a chair
and looked very uncomfortable. However, in
another minute Hardy came to the rescue and
began pouring out the tea. He was evidently
tickled at the idea of confronting Tom so soon
with another of his enemies. Tom saw this,
and put on a cool and majestic manner in con-
sequence, which evidently increased the dis-
comfort of Grey’s seat, and kept Hardy on the
edge of an abyss of laughter. In fact, he had
to ease himself by talking of indifferent mat-
ters and laughing at nothing. Tom had never
seen him in this sort of humor before, and
couldn’t help enjoying it, though he felt that it
was partly at his own expense. But when
Hardy once just approached the subject of the
wine party, Tom bristled up so quickly, and
Grey looked so meekly wretched, though he
knew nothing of what was coming, that Hardy
suddenly changed the subject, and, turning to
Grey, said :

“What have you been doing the last fort-
night? You haven’t been here once. I’ve
been obliged to get on with my Aristotle with-
out you.”

“I’m very sorry indeed, but I haven’t been
able to come,” said Grey, looking sideways at

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

Hardy, and then at Tom, who sat regarding the
wall, supremely indifferent.

“ Weil, I’ve finished my Ethics,” said Hardy ;
“can’t you come in to-morrow night to talk
them over ? I suppose you’re through them
too ?”

“No, really,” said Grey, “ I haven’t been able
to look at them since the last time I was here.”

“You must take care,” said Hardy. “The
new examiners are all for science and history;
it won’t do for you to go in trusting to your
scholarship.”

“I hope to make it up in the Easter vaca-
tion,” said Grey.

‘ ‘ You’ll have enough to do then,” said Hardy ;
“but how is it you’ve dropped astern so?”

“Why, the fact is,” said Grey, hesitatingly,
“that the curate of St. Peter’s has set up some
night-schools, and wanted some help. So I
have been doing what I could to help him ; and
really, ” looking at his watch, “I must be going.
I only wanted to tell you how it was I didn’t
come now.”

Hardy looked at Tom, who was taken rather
aback by this announcement, and began to look
less haughtily at the wall. He even condescend-
ed to take a short glance at his neighbor.

“It’s unlucky,” said Hardy; “but do you
teach every night ?”

“ Yes,” said Grey. “ I used to do my science
and history at night, you know ; but I find that
teaching takes so much out of me, that I’m only
fit for bed now when I get back. I’m so glad
I’ve told you. I have wanted to do it for some
time. And if you would let me come in for
an hour dii’ectly after hall, instead of later, I
think I could still manage that.”

“Of course,” said Hardy, “come when you
like. But it's rather hard to take you away ev-
ery night, so near the examinations.”

“ It is my own wish,” said Grey. “ I should
have been very glad if it hadn’t happened just
now ; but as it has, I must do the best I can.”

“ Well, but I should like to help you. Can’t
I take a night or two off your hands ?”

“ No !” said Tom, fired with a sudden enthu-
siasm ; “it will be as bad for you, Hardy. It
can’t want much scholarship to teach there.
Let me go. I’ll take two nights a week, if you’ll
let me.”

“ Oh, thank you,” said Grey ; “but I don’t
know how my friend might like it. That is— I
mean,” he said, getting very red, “ its very kind
of you, only I’m used to it ; and — and they rely
on me. But I really must go — good-night;”
and Grey went off in confusion.

As soon as the door had fairly closed. Hardy
could stand it no longer, and lay back in his
chair, laughing till the tears ran down his clieeks.
Tom, wholly unable to appreciate the joke, sat
looking at him with perfect gravity.

“What can thei*e be in your look, BroAvn,”
said Hardy, when he could speak again, “to
frighten Grey so ? Did you see what a friglit
he was in at once, at the idea of turning you
into the night-schools? There must be some

lurking Protestantism in your face somewhere,
which I hadn’t detected.”

“I don’t believe he was frightened at me a
bit. He wouldn’t have you either, remember,”
said Tom.

“Well, at any rate, that don’t look as if it
were all mere Gothic-mouldings and man-mil-
linery, does it?” said Hardy.

Tom sipped his tea, and considered.

“ One can’t help admiring him, do you know,
for it,” he said. “Do you think he is really
throw'n back now in his own reading by this
teaching ?”

“I’m sure of it. He is such a quiet fellow
that nothing else is likely to draw him off read-
ing; and I can see that he doesn’t get on as he
used, day by day. Unless he makes it up some-
how, he won’t get his first.”

“He don’t seem to like the teaching work
much,” said Tom.

“Not at all, as far as I can see.”

“Then it is a very fine thing of him,” said
Tom.

“And you retract your man-millinery dic-
tum, so far as he is concerned ?”

“ Yes, that I do, heartily ; but not as to the
set in general.”

“ Well, they don’t suit me either ; but, on the
whole, they are wanted — at any rate, in this col-
lege. Even the worst of them is making some
sort of protest for self-denial, and against self-
indulgence, which is nowhere more needed than
here.”

“A nice sort of protest — muslin curtains, a
piano, and old claret.”

“Oh, you’ve no right to count Hendon among
them ; he has only a little hankering after me-
disevalism, and thinks the whole thing gentle-
manly.”

‘ ‘ I only know the whole clamjamfery of them
were there, and didn’t seem to protest much.”
“Brown, you’re a bigot. I should never have
thought you would have been so furious against
any set of fellows. I begin to smell Arnold.”
“No you don’t. He never spoke to me
against any body.”

“Hallo! It was the Rugby atmosphere,
then, I suppose. But I tell you they are the
only men in this college who are making that
protest, whatever their motives may be.”

“ What do you say to yourself, old fellow ?”

‘ ‘ Nonsense ! I never deny myself any pleas-
ure that I can afford, if it isn’t wrong in itself,
and doesn’t hinder any one else. I can tell you
I’m as fond of fine things and good living as you.”
“.^a thing isn’t wrong, and you can afford
it, and it don’t hurt any body ! Just so ; well,
then, mustn’t it be right for you to have ? You
wouldn’t have it put under your nose, I suppose,
just for you to smell at, and let it alone ?”
“Yes, I know all that. I’ve been over it all
often enough, and there’s truth in it. But,
mind you, its rather slippery ground, especially
for a freshman ; and there’s a great deal to be
said on the other side — I mean, for denying one’s
self just for the sake of the self-denial.”

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

“ Well, tliey don’t deny tliem#elves the pleas-
ure of looking at a fellow as if he were a Turk,
because he likes St. Paul’s better than West-
minster Abbey.”

“ How that snubbing you got at the Eccdesi-
ological wine party seems to rankle. There
now! don’t bristle up like a hedgehog. I’ll
never mention that unfortunate wine again. I
saw the eight come in to-day. You are keep-
ing much better time ; but there is a weak
place or two forward.”

“Yes,” said Tom, delighted to change the
subject, “I find it awfully hard to pull up to
Jervis’s stroke. Do you think I shall ever get
to it?”

. “ Of course you will. Why, you have only
been pulling behind him a dozen times or so,
and his is the most trying stroke on the river.
You quicken a little on it; but I didn’t moan
you. Two and five are the blots in the boat.”
“You think so?” said Tom, much relieved.
“ So does Miller, I can see. It’s so provoking
— Drysdale is to pull two in the races next
term, and Blake seven, and then Diogenes will
go to five. He’s obliged to pull seven now,
because Blake won’t come down this term ; no
more will Drysdale. They say there will be
plenty of time after Easter.”

“It’s a great pity,” said Hardy.

“ Isn’t it ?” said Tom ; “ and it make^ Miller
so savage. He walks into us all as if it \yere
our faults. Do you think he’s a good cox-
swain ?”

“ First-rate on most points, but 'rather too
sharp-tongued. You can’t get a man’s best out
of him without a little praise.”

“ Yes, that’s just it ; he puts one’s back up,”
said Tom. “But the Captain is a splendid
fellow, isn’t he ?”

“Yes ; but a little too easy, at least with men
like Blake and Drysdale. He ought to make
them train, or turn them out.”

“But who could he get? Thei'e's nobody
else. If you would pull now — why shouldn’t
you ? I’m sure it would make us all right.”

“ I don’t subscribe to the club,” said Hardy ;
“ I wish I had, for I should like to have pulled
with you, and behind Jervis, this year.”

“Do let me tell the Captain,” said Tom;
“I’m sure he’d manage it somehow.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late,” said Hardy; “I
cut myself ofif from every thing of the sort two
years ago, and I’m beginning to think I was a
fool for my pains.”

Nothing more was said on the subject at the
time; but Tom went away in great spirits at
having drawn this confession out of Hardy — the
more so, perhaps, because he flattered himself
that he had had something to say to the change
in his friend.

CHAPTER X.

SUMMER TERM.

How many spots in life are there whidi will
bear comparison with the beginning of our sec-
ond term at the university ? So far as external
circumstances are concerned, it seems hard to
know what a man could find to ask for at that
period of his life, if a fairy godmother were to
alight in his rooms and offer him the usual three
wishes. The sailor who had asked for “ all the
grog in the world” and “ all the baccy in the
world” was indeed driven to “a little more
baccy ” as his third requisition ; but, at any
rate, his two first requisitions were to some ex-
tent grounded on what he held to be substantial
wants ; he felt himself actually limited in the
matters of grog and tobacco. The condition
which Jack would have been in as a wisher, if
he had been started on his quest with the assur-
ance that his utmost desires in the direction of
alcohol and narcotics were already provided for,
and must be left out of the question, is the only
one affording a pretty exact parallel to the case
we are considering. In our second term we are
no longer freshmen, and begin to feel ourselves
at home, while both “smalls” and “greats”
are sufficiently distant to be altogether ignored
if we are that way inclined, or to be looked for-
wai’d to with confidence that the game is in our
own hands if we are reading men. Our finan-
cial position — unless we have exercised rare in-
genuity in involving ourselves — is all that heart
can desire ; we have ample allowances paid
in quarterly to the university bankers without
thought or trouble of ours, and our credit is at
its zenith. It is a part of our recognized duty
to repay the hospitality we have received as
freshmen ; and all men will be sure to come to
our first parties, to see how we do the thing ;
it will be our own faults if we do not keep them
in future. We have not had time to injure our
characters to any material extent with the au-
thorities of our own college, or of the university.
Our spirits are never likely to be higher, or our
digestions better. These, and many other com-
forts and advantages, environ the fortunate
youth returning to Oxford after his first vaca-
tion ; thrice fortunate, however, if, as happen-
ed in our hero’s case, it is Easter term to which
he is returning ; for that Easter term, with the
four days’ vacation, and little Trinity term at
the end of it, is surely the cream of the Oxford
year. Then, even in this our stern Northern
climate, the sun is beginning to have power,
the days have lengthened out, great-coats are un-
necessary at morning chapel, and the miseries
of numbed hands and shivering skins no long-
er accompany every pull on the river and can-
ter on Bullingdon. In Christchurch meadows
and the college gardens the birds are making
sweet music in the tall elms. You may almost
hear the thick grass growing, and the buds on
tree and shrub are changing from brown, red,
or purple, to emerald green under your eyes ;
thw glorious old city is putting on her best looks

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

and bursting out into laughter and song. In a
few weeks the races begin, and Cowley marsh
will be alive with white tents and joyous crick-
eters. A quick ear, on the towing-path by the
Gut, may feast at one time on those three sweet
sounds, the thud thud of the eight-oar, the crack
of the rifles at the Weirs, and the click of the
bat on the Magdalen ground. And then Com-
memoration rises in the background, with its
clouds of fair visitors, and visions of excursions
to Woodstock and Nunehara in the summer
days — of windows open on to the old quadran-
gles in the long still evenings, through which
silver laughter and strains of sweet music, not
made by man, steal out and puzzle the old cel-
ibate jackdaws, peering down from the battle-
ments with heads on one side. To crown all,
long vacation, beginning with the run to Hen-
ley regatta, or up to town to see the match with
Cambridge at Lord’s, and taste some of the
sweets of the season before starting on some
pleasure tour or reading-party, or dropping back
into the quiet pleasures of English country life!
Surely the lot of young Englishmen who fre-
quent our universities is cast in ifleasant places.
The country has a right to expect something
from those for whom she finds such a life as this
in the years when enjoyment is keenest.

Tom was certainly alive to the advantages
of the situation, and entered on his kingdom
without any kind of scruple. Fie was very glad
to find things so pleasant, and quite resolved to
make the best he could of them. Then he was
in a particularly good humor with himself ; for,
in deference to the advice of Hardy, he had
actually fixed on the books which he should
send in for his little-go examination before go-
ing down for the Easter vacation, and had read
them through at home, devoting an hour or two
almost daily to this laudable occupation. So
he felt himself entitled to take things easily on
his return. He had brought back with him two
large hampers of good sound wine, a gift from
his father, who had a horror of letting his son
set before his friends the fire-water which is
generally sold to the under-graduate. Tom
found that his father’s notions of the rate of
consumption prevalent in the university were
wild in the extreme. “ In his time,” the squire
said, “eleven men came to his first wine party,
and he had opened nineteen bottles of port for
them. He was very glad to hear that the hab-
its of the place had changed so much for the
better; and as Tom wouldn’t want nearly so
much wine, he should have it out of an older
bin.” Accordingly, the port which Tom em-
ployed the first hour after his return in stacking
carefully away in his cellar, had been more than
twelve years in bottle, and he thought with un-
mixed satisfaction of the pleasing effect it would
have on Jervis and Miller, and the one or two
other men who knew good wine from bad, and
guided public opinion on the subject, and of the
social importance which he would soon attain
from the reputation of giving good wine.

The idea of entertaining, of being hospitable.

j is a pleasant and fascinating one to most young
j men ; but the act soon gets to be a bore to all
I but a few curiously constituted individuals,
j With these hospitality becomes first a passion
and then a faith — a faith the practice of which,
in the cases of some of its professors, reminds
one strongly of the hints on such subjects scat-
tered about the New Testament. Most of us
feel, when our friends leave us, a certain sort
of satisfaction, not unlike that of paying a bill ;
they have been done for, and can’t expect any
thing more for a long time. Such thoughts
never occur to your really hospitable man.
Long years of narrow means can not hinder him
from keeping open house for whoever wants to
come to him, and setting the best of everything
before all comers. He has no notion of giving
you any thing but the best he can command, if
it be only fresh porter from the nearest mews.
He asks himself not, “ Ought I to invite A or
B ? do I owe him any thing ?” but, “ Would A
or B like to come here ?” Give me these men’s
houses for real enjoyment, though you never get
any thing very choice there— (how can a man
produce old wine who gives his oldest every
day ?) — seldom much elbow-room or orderly ar-
rangement. The high arts of gastronomy and
scientific drinking, so much valued in our high-
ly-civilized community, are ■ wholly unheeded
by him, are altogether above him, are cultivated,
in fact, by quite another set, who have very lit-
tle of the genuine spirit of hospitality in them ;
from whose tables, should one by cllaijc.& happen
upon them, one rises, certainly with a feeling
of satisfaction and expansion, chiefly physical,
but entirely without that expansion of heart
which one gets at the scramble of the hospitable
man. So that we are driven to remark, even in
such every-day matters as these, that it is the
invisible, the spiritual, which, after all, gh^es
value and reality even to dinners ; and, with
Solomon, to prefer to the most touching diner
Riisse the dinner of herbs where love is, though
I trust that neither we nor Solomon should ob-
ject to well-dressed cutlets with our salad, if
they happen to be going. ,

Readers will scarcely need to be told that one
of the first things Tom did, after depositing his
luggage and unpacking his wine^ was to call at
Hardy’s rooms, where he found his friend deep,
as usual, in his books, the hard-worked atlases
and dictionaries of all sorts taking up more space
than ever*. After the first hearty greetings, Tom
occupied his old place with much satisfaction.

“How long have you been up, old fellow?”
he began ; “you look quite settled.”

“ I only went home for a week. Well, what
have you been doing in the vacation?”

“Oh, there was nothing much going on ; so,
among other things, I’ve nearly floored my lit-
tle-go work.”

“Bravo! you’ll find the comfort of it now.
I hardly thought you would take to the grind so
easily.”

“It’s pleasant enough for a spurt,” said Tom ;
“but I shall never manage a horrid perpetual

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

grind like yours. But what in the world have
YOU been doing to your walls ?”

Tom might well ask, for the corners of Har-
dy’s room were covered with sheets of paper of
different sizes, pasted against the wall in groups.
In the line of sight, from about the height of
four to six feet, there was scarcely an inch of
the original paper visible, and round each cen-
tre group there were outlying patches and
streamers, stretching towards floor or ceiling, or
flway nearly to the book-cases or fire-place.

“Well, don’t you think it a great improve-
ment on the old paper?” said Hardy. “I shall
he out of rooms next term, and it will be a hint
to the college that the rooms want papering.
Fou’re no judge of such matters, or I should ask
pu whether you don’t see great artistic taste in
the arrangement.”

“Why, they’re nothing but maps, and lists
of names and dates,” said Tom, who had got up
to examine the decorations. “ And what in the
world are all these queer pins for?” he went on,
pulling a strong pin with a large red sealing-
A'ax head out of the map nearest to him.

“Hallo! take care there; what are you
about ?” shouted Hardy, getting up and hasten-
ing to the corner. “ Why, you irreverent beg-
gar, those pins are the famous statesmen and
Avarriors of Greece and Rome.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn’t know I
Avas in such august company;” saying Avhich
Tom proceeded to stick the red-headed pin back
into the wall.

“Now just look at that,” said Hardy, taking
the pin out from the place Avhere Tom had stuck
it. “Pretty doings there Avould be among
them Avith your management ! This pin is Bra-
sidas ; you’ve taken him aAvay from Naupactus,
AA'here he Avas Avatching the eleven Athenian
galleys anchored under the temple of Apollo,
and stuck him down right in the middle of the
Pnyx, where he will be instantly torn in pieces
by a ruthless and reckless mob. You call your-
self a Tory, indeed ! HoAvever, ’twas always
the same Avith you Tories — calculating, cruel,
and jealous. Use your leaders up, and throw
chem over — that’s the golden rule of aristocra-
cies.”

“Hang Brasidas!” said Tom* laughing;
“stick him back at Naupactus again. Here,
Avhich is Cleon ? The scoundrel ! gh'e me liold
of him, and I’ll put him in a hot berth.”

“That’s he with the yellow head. Let him
alone, I tell you, or all Avill be hopeless confu-
sion when Grey comes for his lecture. We’re
only in the third year of the Avar.”

“I like your chaff about Tories sacrificing
their great men,” said Tom, putting his hands
in his pockets to avoid temptation. “Hoav
about your precious democracy, old felloAv?
Which is Socrates ?”

“Here, the dear old boy ! — this pin Avith the
great gray head, in the middle of Athens, you
see. I pride myself on my Athens. Here’s
the Piraeus and the long walls, and the Hill of
Mars. Isn’t it as good as a picture ?”

“Well, it IS better than most maps, I think.”
said Tom ; “ but you’re not going to slip out so
easily. I AA'ant to know Avhether your pet de-
mocracy did or did not murder Socrates.”

‘ ‘ I’m not bound to defend democracies. But
look at my pins. It may be the natural fond-
ness of a parent, but I declare they seem to
me to have a great deal of character, consider-
ing the material. You’ll guess them at once,
I’m sure, if you mark the color and shape of the
Avax. This one noAv, for instance, Avho is he?”
“ Alcibiades,” answered Tom, doubtfully.

“ Alcibiades !” shouted Hardy ; “you fresh
from Rugby, and not knoAv your Thucydides
better than that ? There’s Alcibiades, that little
purple-headed, foppish pin, by Socrates. This
rusty-colored one is that respectable old stick-
in-the-mud, Nicias.”

“Well, but you’A'e made Alcibiades nearly
the smallest of the whole lot,” said Tom.

“So he Avas, to my mind,” said Hardy;
“just the sort of insolent young ruffian whom I
should have liked to buy at my price, and sell
at his OAvn. He must have been very like some
of our gentlemen-commoners, with the addition
of brains.”

“I should really think, though,” said Tom,
“it must be a capital plan for making you re-
member the history.”

“ Ic is, I flatter myself. I’ve long had the
idea, but I should never have Avorked it out and
found the value of it but for Grey. I invented
it to coach him in his history. You see aa'c arc
in the Grecian corner. Over there is the Ro-
man. You’ll find LiA"y and Tacitus Avorked
out there, just as Herodotus and Thucydides
are here ; and the pins are stuck for the Second
Punic War, Avbere we are just now. I shouldn’t
wonder if Grey got his first, after all, he’s pick-
ing up so quick in my corners ; and says he
never forgets any set of events Avhen he has prick-
ed them out Avith the pins.”

“Is he Avorking at that school still?” asked
Tom.

“Yes, as hard as eA’er. He didn’t go down
for the vacation, and I really believ'e it was be-
cause the curate told him the school would go
Avrong if he Avent aAvay.”

“It’s very plucky of him, but I do think he’s
a great fool not to knock it off now till he has
passed, don’t you?”

“No,” said Hardy; “he is getting more
good there than he can ever get in the schools,
though I hope he’ll do well in them too.”
“Well, I hope so ; for he deserves it. And
noAv, Hardy, to change the subject. I’m going to
give my first Avine next Thursday ; and here’s
the first card Avhich has gone out for it. You’ll
promise me to come, now, Avon’t you ?”

“ What a hurry you’re in,” said Hardy, tak-
ing the card, which he put on his mantel-piece,
after examining it.

“ But you’ll promise to come, now?”

“I’m very hard at work; I can’t be sure.”

“ You needn’t stay aboA'ehalf an hour. I’a'C
brought back some famous wine from the gov-

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

ernor’s cellar; and I want so to get you and
Jervis together. He is sure to come.”

“Why, that’s the bell for chapel beginning
already,” said Hardy ; “ I had no notion it was
so late. I must be off, to put the new servi-
tor up to his work. Will you come in after
hall?”

“Yes, if 3'ou will come to me next Thurs-
day.”

“ We’ll talk about it. But mind you come
to-night ; for you’ll find me working Grey in
the Punic Wars, and you’ll see how the pins
act. I’m very proud of my show.”

And so Hardy went off to chapel, and Tom
to Drysdale’s rooms, not at all satisfied that he
had made Hardy safe. He found Drysdale
lolling on his sofa, as usual, and fondling Jack.
He had just arrived, and his servant and the
scout were unpacking his portmanteaus. He
seemed pleased to see Tom, but looked languid
and used up.

“Where have you been this vacation ?” said
Tom; “ you look seedy.”

“ You may say that,” said DrysdMe. “Here,
Henry, get out a bottle of Schiedam. Have a
taste of bitters ? there’s nothing like it to set
one’s digestion right.”

“No, thank’ee,” said Tom, rejecting the glass
which Henry proffered him ; “ my appetite
don’t want improving.”

“You’re lucky, then,” said Drysdale. “ Ah,
that’s the right stuff! I feel better already.”
“But where have j'ou been ?”

“ Oh, in the little village. It’s no use being
in the country at this time of year. I just went
up to Limmer’s, and there I stuck, with two or
three more, till to-day.”

“I can't stand London for more than a
week,” said Tom. “What did you do all
day ?”

“ We hadn’t much to say to daylight,” said
Drysdale. “ What with theatres, and sparring-
cribs, and the Coal-hole and cider-cellars, and a
little play in St. James’s Street now and then,
one wasn’t up to early rising. However, I was
better than the rest, for I had generally break-
fasted by two o’clock.”

“No wonder you look seedy. You’d much
better have been in the country.”

“I should have been more in pocket, at any
rate,” said Drysdale. “By Jove, how it runs
away with the ready ! I’m fairly cleaned out ;
and if I haven’t luck at Van-John, I’ll he hang-
ed if I know how I’m to get through term. But
look here, here’s a bundle of the newest songs —
first-rate, some of them.” And he threw some
papers across to Tom, who glanced at them
without being at all edified.

“You’re going to pull regularly, I hope, this
term, Drysdale ?”

“Yes, I think so ; it’s cheap amusement, and
I want a little training for a change.”

“That’s all right.”

“ I’ve brought down some dresses for our gyp-
sy business, by-the-way. I didn’t forget that.
Is Blake back ?”

“ I don’t know,” said Tom ; “but we shan't
have time before the races.”

“Well, afterwards will do; though the days
oughtn’t to be too long. I’m all for a little dark-
ness in masquerading.”

“ There’s five o’clock striking. Are you go-
ing to dine in hall ?”

“No ; I shall go to the Mitre, and get a broil.”
“Then I’m off. Let’s see — will you come
and wine with me next Thursday !”

“Yes ; only send us a card, ‘ to remind.’ ”

“ All right!” said Tom, and went off to hall,
feeling dissatisfied and uncomfortable about his
fast friend, for whom he had a sincere regard.

After hall, Tom made a short round among
his acquaintance, and then, giving himself up to
the strongest attraction, returned to Hardy’s
rooms, comforting himself with the thought that
it really must be an act of Christian charity to
take such a terrible reader off his hooks for once
in a way, when his conscience pricked him for
intruding on Hardy during his hours of work.
He found Grey there, who was getting up his
Roman history, under Hardy’s guidance ; and
the two were working the pins on the maps and
lists in the Roman corner when Tom arrived.
He begged them not to stop, and very soon was
as much interested in what they were doing as
if he also were going into the schools in May ;
for Hardy had a way of throwing life into what
he was talking about, and, like many men with
strong opinions and passionate natures, either
carried his hearers off' their legs and away with
him altogether, or roused eveiy spark of com-
bativeness in them. The latter was the effect
which his lecture on the Funic "\Yars had on
Tom. He made several protests as Hardy went
on ; but Grey’s anxious looks kept him from go-
ing fairly into action, till Hardy stuck the black
pin, which represented Scipio, triumphantly in
the middle of Carthage, and, turning round,
said, “And now for some tea. Grey, before you
have to turn out.”

Tom opened fire while the tea was brewing.

“ You couldn’t say any thing bad enough
about aristocracies this morning. Hardy, and
now to-night you are crowing over the success
of the heaviest and cruellest oligaixhy that ever
lived, and praising them up to the skies.”
“Hollo ! here’s a breeze!” said Hardy, smil-
ing; “but I rejoice, O Brown, in that they
thrashed the Carthaginians ; and not, as j-ou
seem to think, in that they, being aristocrats,
thrashed the Carthaginians ; for oligarchs they
were not at this time.”

“ At any rate, they answ’er to the Spartans in
the struggle, and the Carthaginians to the Athe-
nians ; and yet all your sympathies are with the
Romans to-night in the Punic Wars, though
they were with the Athenians before dinner.”
“I deny your position. The Carthaginians
were nothing but a great trading aristocracy —
with a glorious family or two, I grant you, like
that of Hannibal ; but, on the whole, a dirty,
bargain-driving, buy-cheap-and-sell-dear aris-
tocracy— of whom the world w'as well rid. The-'’

ivjxM BROWN AT OXFORD.

like the Athenians indeed! Why, just look
what the two peoples have left behind them — ”
“Yes,” interrupted Tom ; “ but we only know
the Carthaginians through the reports of tlieir
destroyers. Your heroes tramjiled them out
with hoofs of iron.”

“Do you think the Roman hoof could have
trampled out their Homer, if they ever had one?”
said Hardy. “ The Romans conquered Greece
too, remember.”

“But Greece was never so near beating them.”
“ True. But I hold to my point. Carthage
was the mother of all hucksters, compassing sea
and land to sell her wares.”

“And no bad line of life for a nation. At
least Englishmen ought to think so.”

“No, they ought not; at least if ‘Punica
tides ’ is to be the rule of trade. Selling any
amount of Brummagem wares never did nation
or man much good, and never will. Eh, Grey ?”
Grey winced at being appealed to, but re-
marked that he hoped the Church would yet be
able to save England from the fate of Tyre and
Carthage, the great trading nations of the Old
World : and then, swallowing his tea, and look-
ing as if he had been caught robbing a henroost,
he made a sudden exit, and hurried away out
of college to the night-school.

“ What a pity he is so odd and shy,” said
Tom; “I should so like to know more of
him.”

“ It is a pity. He is much better when he is
alone with me. I think he has heard from some
of the set that you are a furious Protestant, and
sees an immense amount of stifF-neckedness in'
you.”

“But about England and Carthage,” said
Tom, shirking the subject of his own peculiari-
ties ; “ you don’t really think us like them ? It
gave me turn to hear you translating ‘Punica
fides’ into Brummagem wares just now.”

“I think that successful trade is our rock
ahead. The devil who holds new markets and
twenty per cent, profits in his gift, is the devil that
England has most to fear from. ‘Because of
unrighteous dealings, and riches gotten by de-
ceit, the kingdom is translated from one people
to ajiother,’ said the wise man. Think of that
opium war the other day : I don’t believe we
we can get over many more such businesses as
that. Grey falls back on the Church, you see,
to save the nation ; but the Church he dreams
of will never do it. Is there any that can ?
There must be, surely, or we have believed a lie.
But this work of making trade righteous, of
Christianizing trade, looks like the very hardest
the Gospel hag ever had to take in hand— in
England, at any rate.”

Hardy spoke slowly and doubtfully, and
paused as if asking for Tom’s opinion.

“ I never heard it put in that way. I know
very little of politics or the state of England.
But come, now; the putting down the slave-
trade and compensating our planters, that shows
that we are not sold to the trade-devil yet, sure-
ly.”

“I don’t think we are. No, thank God,
there are jjlenty of signs that we are likely to
make a good fight of it yet.”

They talked together for anotiier hour, draw-
ing their chairs round to the fire, and looking
dreamily into the embers, as is the wont of men
who are throwing out suggestions, and helping
one another to think, rather than arguing. At
the end of that time, Tom left Hardy to his
books, and went away laden with several new
ideas, one of the clearest of which was that he
was awfully ignorant of the contemporary his-
tory of his own country, and that it vas the
thing of all others which he ought to be best in-
formed on and thinking most about. So, being
of an impetuous turn of mind, he went straight
to his rooms to commence his new study, where,
after diligent hunting, the only food of the
kind he required which turned up was the last
number of Bell's Life from the pocket of his
great-coat. Upon this he fell to work, in de-
fault of any thing better, and was soon deep in
the P. R. column, which was full of interesting
speculations as to the chances of Bungaree in
his forthcoming campaign against the British
middle-weights. By the time he had skimmed
through the well-known sheets, he was satisfied
that the columns of his old acquaintance were
not the place, except in the police reports,
where much could be learned about the present
state or future prospects of England. Then,
the first evening of term being a restless time,
he wandered out again, and before long landed,
as his custom was, at Drysdale’s door.

On entering the room he found Drysdale and
Blake alone together, the former looking more
serious than Tom had ever seen him before.
As for Blake, the restless, haggard expression
sat more heavily than ever on his face, sadly
marring its beauty. It was clear that they
changed the subject of their talk abruptly on his
entrance; so Tom looked anywhere except
straight before him as he was greeting Blake.
He really felt very sorry for him at the moment.
However, in another five minutes, he was in fits
of laughter over Blake’s description of the con-
versation between himself and the coachman
who had driven the Glo’ster day-mail by which
he had come up : in which conversation, never-
theless, when Tom came to think it over, and
try to repeat it afterwards, the most facetious
parts seemed to be the “ sez he’s ” and the
“sez I’s” with which Jehu larded his stories;
so he gave up the attempt, wondering what he
could have found in it to laugh at.

“By-the-way, Blake,” said Drysdale, “how
about our excursion into Berkshire masquerad-
ing this term ? Are you game ?”

“ Not exactly,” said Blake ; “ I really must
make the most of such time as I have left, if
I’m to go into the schools this term.”

“If there’s one thing which spoils Oxford, it
is those schools,” said Drysdale; “they get in
the way of every thing. I ought to be going
up for smalls myself next term, and I haven’t
opened a book yet, and don’t mean. Follow a

TOM BTIOWN AT OXFOED.

good example, old fellow, you’re cock-sure of
your first, every body knows.”

“I wish every body would back bis opinion,
and give me a shade of odds. Why, I have
scarcely thought of my history.”

“Why the d — 1 should they make such a
fuss about history ? One knows perfectly well
that those old blackguard heathens were no better
than they should be; and what good it can do
to lumber one's head with who their grand-
mothers were, and what they ate, and when and
where and why they had their stupid brains
knocked out, I can’t see, for the life of me.”

“ Excellently well put. Whei’e did you pick
up such sound views, Drysdale ? But you’re
not examiner yet; and, on the whole, I must
rub up my history somehow. I wish I knew
how to do it.”

“ Can’t you put on a coach ?” said Drysdale.

“ I have one on, but history is liis weak
point,” said Blake.

“I think lean help you,” said Tom. “ I’ve
just been hearing a lecture in Koman history,
and one that won’t be so easy to forget as
most;” and he went on to explain Hardy’s
plans, to which Blake listened eagerly.

“ Capital !” he said, when Tom had finished.

“ In whose rooms did you say they are?”

“In Hardy’s, and he works at them every
night with Grey.”

“That’s the queer big servitor, his particular
pal,” put in Drysdale; “there’s no accounting
for tastes.”

“You don’t know him,” retorted Tom;
“and the less you say about him the better.”

“ I know he wears highlows and short flan-
nels, and — ”

“Would you mind asking Hardy to let me
come to his lectures?” interrupted Blake, avert-
ing the strong language which was rising to
Tom’s lips. “I think they seem just the things
I want. I shouldn’t like to offer to pay him,
unless you think — ”

“I’m quite sure,” interrupted Tom, “that
he won’t take any thing. I will ask him to-
morrow whether he will let you come, and he
is such a kind, good fellow that I’m almost
sure he will.”

“I should like to know your pal, too. Brown,”
said Drysdale ; “you must introduce me, with
Blake.”

“No, ni be hanged if I do,” said Tom.

“Then I shall introduce myself,” said Drys-
dale; “see if I don’t sit next him, now, at
your wine on Thursday.”

Here Drysdale’s scout entered with two
notes, and wished to know if Mr. Drysdale
would require any thing more. Nothing but
hot water ; he could put the kettle on, Drys-
dale said, and go ; and while the scout was ful-
filling his orders, he got up carelesslyj whistling,
and walking to the fire, read the notes by the
light of one of the candles which were burning on
the mantel-piece. Blake was watching him ea-
gerly, and Tom saw this, and made some awk-
ward efforts to go on talking about the ad van- '

tages of Hardy’s plan for learning history. But
he was talking to deaf ears, and soon eame to a
stand-still. He saw Drysdale crumple up the
notes in his hand and shove them into his pock-
et. After standing for a few seconds in the same
position, Avith his back to them, he turned round
with a careless air, and sauntered to the table
where they Avere sitting.

“Let’s see, Avhat Avere Ave saying?” he be-
gan. “Oh, about your eccentric pal, BroAvn.”

“You'\"e ansAvers from both?” interrupted
Blake. Drysdale nodded, and Avas beginning
to speak again to Tom, Avhen Blake got up and
said, Avith Avhite lips, “ I must see them.”

“No, never mind, Avhat does it matter?”

“Matter! by Heaven, I must and Avill see
them noAv.”

Tom saAv at once that he had better go, and
so took up his cap, Avished them good-night, and
Avent off to his OAvn rooms.

He might have been sitting there for about
tAventy minutes Avhen Drysdale entered.

“I couldn’t help coming over, BroAvn,” he
said ; “I must talk to some one, and Blake has
gone off raging. I don’t know Avhat he’ll do —
I never aa'us so bothered or savage in my life.”

“I am very sorry,” said Tom ; “he looked
A'ery bad in your rooms. Can I do any thing?”

“No, but I must talk to some one. You
knoAV — no you don’t, by-the-way — but, however,
Blake got me out of a tremendous scrape in my
first term, and there’s nothing that I’m not
bound to do for him, and Avouldn’t do if I could.
Yes, by George ! AvhateA^er felloAvs say of me, they
shall never say I didn’t stand by a man who
has stood by me. Well, he oaa'cs a dirty £300
or £400 or something of the sort — nothing
Avorth talking of, I knoAv— to people in Oxford,
and they’ve been leading him a dog’s life this
year and more. Noav he’s just going up for his
degree, and tAvo or three of these creditors — the
most rascally, of course — are suing him in the
Vice-Chancellor’s Court, thinking noAv’s the
time to put the sci’eAv on. He Avill be ruined
if they are not stopped somehoAA’. Just after I
saAV you to-day, he came to me about it. You
never saw a felloAv in such a state ; I could see
it Avas tearing him to pieces, telling it to 'me
eA'en. HoweA^er, I soon set him at ease, as far as
I Avas concerned ; but, as the devil Avill have it,
I can’t lend him the money, though £G0 Avould
get him over the examination, and then he can
make terms. My guardian adA'anced me £200
beyond my alloAvance just before Easter, and I
haven’t £20 left, and the bank here has given
me notice not to overdraAv any more. Hoav-
ever, I thought to settle it easily enough ; so I
told him to meet me at the Mitre in half an
hour for dinner, and Avhen he w'as gone I sat
doAvn and Avrote tAvo notes — the first to St.
Cloud. That felloAV*Avas with us, on and off, in
toAvn, and one night he and I Avent partners at
roulette, I finding ready-money for the time,
gains and losses to be equally shared in the
end. I left the table to go and eat some supper,

' and he lost £80, and paid it out of my money

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

I didn’t much care, and he cursed the luck, and
acknowledged that he owed me £40 at the time.
Well, I just reminded liim of this £40, and said
I should be glad of it (I know he has plenty of
money just now), but added that it might stand
if he would join me and Blake in borrowing
£60 ; I was fool enough to add that Blake was in
difHculties, and I was most anxious td help him.
As I thought that St. Cloud would probably pay
the £40, but do no more, I wrote also to Chan-
ter— Heaven knows why, except that the beast
rolls in money, and has fawned on me till I’ve
been nearly sick this year past — and asked him
to lend Blake £50 on our joint note of hand.
Poor Blake! when I told him what I had done
at the Mitre, I think I might as well have stuck
the carving-knife into him. We had a wretch-
ed two hours ; then you came in, and I got my
two answers — here they are.”

Tom took the proffered notes, and read :

“Dear Drysdale, — Please explain the al-
lusion in yours to some mysterious £40. I re-
member perfectly the occurrence to which you
refer in another part of your note. You were
tired of sitting at the table, and went off to sup-
per, leaving me (not' by my own desire) to play
for you with your money. I did so, and had
abominable luck, as you will remember, for I
handed you back a sadly dwindled heap on your
return to the table. I hope you are in no row
about that night? I shall be quite ready to
give evidence of what passed if it will help you
in any way. I am always yours very truly,

“ A. St. Cloud.

“P.S. — I must decline the little joint opera-
tion for Blake’s benefit, which yon propose.”

The second answer ran :

“Dear Drysdale, — I am sorry that I can
not accommodate Mr. Blake, as a friend of
yours, but you see his acceptance is mere waste
paper, and you can not give security until you
are of age, so if you were to die the money
would be lost. Mr. Blake has always carried
his head as high as if he had £5000 a year to
spend ; perhaps now he will turn less haughty
to men who could buy him up easy enough. I
remain yours sincerely, Jabez Chanter.”

Tom looked up and met Drysdale’s eyes,
which had more of purpose in them than he had
ever seen before. “ Fancy poor Blake reading
those two notes,” he said, “ and ’twas I brought
them on him. However, he shall have the
money somehow to-morrow, if I pawn my watch.
I’ll be even with those two some day.” The
two remained in conference for some time long-
er ; it is hardly worth while to do more than re-
late the result.

At three o’clock the next day, Blake, Drys-
dale, and Tom were in the back-parlor of a sec-
ond-rate inn in the Corn-market. On the table
were pens and ink, some cases of Eau-de-Co-
logne and jewelry, and behind it a fat man of
forbidding aspect who spent a day or two in each
term at Oxford. He held in his thick, red.

damp hand, ornamented as to the fore-finger
with a huge ring, a piece of paper.

“ Then I shall draw for a hundred and
five ?”

“If you do, we won’t sign,” said Drysdale;
“ now be quick, Ben” (the fat man’s name was
Benjamin), “you infernal shark, we’ve been
wrangling long enough over it. Draw for a
£100 at three months, or we arc off’.”

“ Then, Mr. Drysdale, you gents will take
part in goods. I Avish to do all I can for gents
as comes well introduced, but money is very
scarce just now.”

“ Not a stuffed bird, bottle of Eau-de-Cologne,
ring, or cigar, Avill we have. So now no more
nonsense ; pat down £75 on the table.”

The money-lender, after another equally use-
less attempt to move Drysdale, who Avas the
only one of the party Avho spoke, produced a
roll of notes, and counted out £75, thinking to
himself that he Avould make this young sjAark
sing a different tune before A'cry long. He
then filled up the piece of paper, muttering that
the interest Avas nothing considering the risk,
and he hoped they Avould help him to something
better Avith some of their friends. Drysdale
reminded him, in terms not too carefully chosen,
that he Avas getting cent, per cent. The docu-
ment Avas signed — Drysdale took the notes, and
they Avent out.

“Well, that’s Avell OA'cr,” said Drysdale, as
they Avalked towards High Street. “ I’m proud
of my tactics, I must say ; one never does so Avell
for one’s self as for any one else. If I had been
on my OAvn hook, that felloAv Avould have let me
in for £20 Avorth of stuffed birds and bad jcAA^el-
ry. Let’s see, Avhat do you Avant, Blake ?”

“ Sixty Avill do,” said Blake.

“You had better take £65 ; there’ll be some
laAv costs to pay,” and Drysdale handed him
the notes.

“Noaa^, BroAA’n, shall avc divide the balance —
a fiA^er apiece ?”

“No, thank you,” said Tom, “I don’t AA-ant
it ; and, as you two are to hold me harmless,
you must do Avhat you like Avith the money.”
So Drysdale pocketed the £10, after Avhich they
Avalked in silence to the gates of St. Ambrose.
The most reckless youngster doesn’t begin this
sort of thing Avithout reflections Avhich are..apt to
keep him silent. At the gates Blake Avrung
both their hands. “I don’t say much, but I
shan’t forget it.” He got out the Avords with
some difficulty, and Avent off to his rooms.

CHAPTER XI.

muscular CHRISTIANITY.

Within the next Aveek or two several impor-
tant eA’-ents had happened to one and another
of our St. Ambrose friends. Tom had intro-
duced Blake to Hardy, after some demur on the
part of the latter. Blake was his senior by a
term ; might have called on him any time these

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

three years ; why should he want to make his
acquaintance now? But when Tom explained
to him that it would he a kind thing to let Blake
come and coach up history with him, for that
unless he took a high degree in the coming ex-
amination, he would have to leave the college,
and probably he ruined for life. Hardy at once
consented.

Tom did not venture to inquire, for a day or
two, how the two hit it off together. When he
began cautiously to approach the subject, he
was glad to find that Hardy liked Blake.
“He is a gentleman, and very able,” he said;
“it is curious to see how quickly he is over-
hauling Grey, and yet how Grey takes to him.
He has never looked scared at him (as he still
does at you, by-the-way) since the first night
they met. Blake has the talent of setting peo-
ple at their ease without saying any thing. I
shouldn’t wonder if Grey thinks he has sound
Church notions. It’s a dangerous talent, and
may make a man very fiilse if he doesn’t take
care.” Tom asked if Blake would be up in his
history in time. Hardy thought he might, per-
haps ; but he had great lee-way to make up.
If capacity for taking in cram w'ould do it, he
would be all right. He had been well cram-
med in his science, and had put him (Hardy)
up to many dodges which might be useful in
the schools, and w'hich you couldn’t get without
a private tutor.

Then Tom’s first w'ine had gone off most suc-
cessfully. Jervis and Miller had come early
and staid late, and said all that was handsome
of the port, so that he was already a social hero
with the boating set. Drysdale, of course, had
been there, rattling away to every bod}' in his
reckless fashion, and setting a good example to
the two or three fast men whom Tom knew well
enough to ask, and who consequently behaved
pretty well, and gave themselves no airs, though,
as they went away together, they grumbled
slightly that Brown didn’t give claret. The
rest of the men had shaken together well, and
seemed to enjoy themselves. The only draw-
back to Tom had been that neither Hardy nor
Grey had appeared. They excused themselves
afterwards on the score of reading, but Tom
felt aggrieved in Hardy’s case ; he knew that
it was only an excuse.

Then the training had begun seriously.
Miller had come up specially for the first fort-
night, to get them well in hand, as he said.
After they were once fairly started, he would
have to go down till just before the races ; but
he thought he might rely on the Captain to
keep them up to their work in the interval.

So Miller, the coxswain, took to drawing the
bow up to the ear at once. At the very begin-
ning of the term, five or six weeks before the
races, the St. Ambrose boat was to be seen
every other day at Abingdon ; and early din-
ners, limitation of liquids and tobacco, and ab-
stinence from late supper parties, pastry, ice,
and all manner of trash, likely, in Miller’s opin-
ion, to injure nerve or wind, were hanging

over the crew, and already, in fact, to some
extent enforced. The Captain shrugged his
shoulders, submitted to it all himself, and work-
ed away with imperturbable temper; merelv
hinting to Miller, in private, that he was going
too fast, and that it would be impossible to keep
it up. Diogenes highly approved ; he would
have become the willing slave of any tyranny
which should insist that every adult male sub-
ject should pull twenty miles, and never im-
bibe more than a quart of liquid in the tw'enty-
four hours. Tom was inclined to like it, as it
helped him to realize tlie proud fact that he was
actually in the boat. The rest of the crew w'ere
in all stages of mutiny, and were only kept from
breaking out by their fondness for the Cap-
tain and the knowledge that Miller was going
in a few days. As it w'as, Blake was the only
one who openly rebelled. Once or twice he
staid away. Miller swore and grumbled, the
Captain shook his head, and tlie crew in gen-
eral rejoiced.

It is to one of these occasions to which we
must now turn. If the usual casual voyager
of novels had been standing on Sandford lock at
about four, on the afternoon of April • — th, 184-,
he might have beheld the St. Ambrose eight-
oar coming with a steady swing up the last
reach. If such voyager tvere in the least con-
versant with the glorious mystery of rowing, he
w'ould have felt his heart warm at the magnifi-
cent sweep and life of the stroke, and would, on
the whole, have been pleased with the perform-
ance of the crew generally, considered as a col-
lege crew in the early stages of training. They
came “ hard all” up to the pool below the lock,
the coxswain standing in the stern with a tiller-
rope in each hand, and then shipped oars ; the
lock-gates opened and the boat entered, and in
another minute or two was moored to the bank
above the lock, and the crew strolled into the
little inn tvhich stands by the lock, and, after
stopping in the bar to lay hands on several
pewters full of porter, passed through the house
into the quoit and skittle-grounds behind.
These were already -well filled wdth men of
other crews, playing in groups or looking on at
the players. One of these groups, as they
passed, seized on the Captain, and Miller stop-
ped with him ; the rest of the St. Ambrose men,
in no humor for skittles, quoits, or any relaxa-
tion except rest and grumbling, took possession
of the first table and seats tvhich offered, and
came to anchor.

Then followed a moment of intense enjoy-
ment, of a sort only appreciable by those who
have had a twelve miles’ training pull with
a coxswain as sharp as a needle, and in an aw-
ful temper.

“Ah,” said Drysdale, taking the pewter
down from his lips with a sigh, and handing it
to Tom, who sat next him, “ by Jove, I feel
better.”

“It’s almost worth while pulling ‘hard all’
from Abingdon to get such a thirst,” said an-
other of the crew.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ I’ll tell yon what, though,” said Drysdale,
“to-day’s the last day you’ll catch me in this
blessed boat.”

Tom had just finished his draught, but did
not reply ; it was by no means the first time
that Drysdale had announced this resolve.
The rest were silent also.

“ It’s bad enough to have to pull your heart
out, without getting abused all the way into the
bargain. There Miller stands in the stern —
and a devilish easy thing it is to stand there and
walk into us — I can see him chuckle as he comes
to you and me. Brown — ‘ Now, 2, well for-
ward ‘3, don’t jerk;’ ‘Now, 2, throw your
weight on the oar ; come, now', you can get an-
other pound on.’ I hang on like grim Death
— then it’s ‘ Time, 2 ; now, 3 — ’ ”

“Well, it’s a great compliment,” broke in
Tom, with a laugh: “he thinks he can make
something of us.”

“He’ll make nothing of us first, I think,”
said Drysdale. “I’ve lost eight pounds in a
fortnight. The Captain ought to put me in
every place in the boat, in turn, to make it wa-
ter-tight. I’ve larded the bottom boards under
my seat so that not a drop of water will ever
come through again.”

‘ ‘ A very good thing for you, old fellow,” said
Diogenes ; “ you look ten times better than you
did at the beginning of term.”

“I don’t know what you call a good thing,
you old fluter. I’m obliged to sit on my hip-
bones— I can’t go to a lecture — all the tutors
think I’m poking fun at them, and put me on
directly. I haven’t been able to go to lecture
these ten days.”

“ So fond of lecture as he is, too, poor fel-
low!” put in Tom.

“ But they’ve discommonsed me for staying
away,” said Drysdale ; “ not that I care much for
that, though.”

“Well, Miller goes down to-morrow morn-
ing— I hoard him say so,” said another.

“Then we’ll memorialize the Captain, and
get out of these Abingdon pulls. Life isn’t
worth having, at this rate.”

“No other boat has been below Sandford
yet.”

And so they sat on and plotted, and soon
most of the other crews started. And then
they took their turn at skittles, and almost for-
got their grievances, which must be explained
to those who don’t know' the river at Oxford.

The river runs along the south of the city,
getting into the university quarter after it pass-
es under the bridge connecting Berks and Ox-
fordshire, over which is the road to Abingdon.
J ust below this bridge are the boat-builders’ es-
tablishments on both sides of the river, and then
on the Oxfordshire side is Christchurch mead-
ow, opposite which is moored the university
barge. Here is the goal of all university races ;
and the race-course stretches away down the
river for a mile and a half, and a little below
the starting-place of the races is Iffley Lock.
The next lock below lifleyis the Sandford Lock

(where we left our boat’s crcw' playing at skit-
tles), which is about a mile and a half below
Iffley. Below Sandford there is no lock till you
get to Abingdon, a distance of six miles and
more by the river. Now, inasmuch as the long-
est distance to be rowed in the races is only the
upper mile and a half from Iffley to the univer-
sity barge, of course all the crew's think them-
selves very hardly treated if they are taken far-
ther than to Sandford. Pulling “hard all”
from Sandford to Iffley, and then again from
Iffley over the regular course, ought to be enough,
in all conscience. So chorus the crews ; and
most captains and coxswains give in. But here
and there some enemy of his kind — some un-
comfortable, worriting, energizing mortal, like
Miller — gets command of a boat, and then the
unfortunate crew are dragged, bemoaning their
fate, down below Sandford, where no friendly
lock intervenes to break the long, steady swing
of the training pull every two miles, and the
result for the time is blisters and mutiny. I
am bound to add that it generally tells, and that
the crew which has been undergoing that peine
forte et dure is very apt to get the change out
of it on the nights of hard races.

So the St. Ambrose crew played out their
skittles, and settled to appeal to the Ca]jtain in
a body the next day, after Miller’s departure ;
and then, being summoned to the boat, they
took to the water again, and paddled steadily
up home, arriving just in time for hall for those
Avho liked to hurry. Drysdale never liked hur-
rying himself ; besides, he could not dine in
hall, as he was discommonsed for persistent ab-
sence from lectures, and neglect to go to the
Dean when sent for to explain his absence.

“I say. Brown, hang hall,” he said to Tom,
who was throwing on his things; “come and
dine with me at the Mitre. I’ll give you a
bottle of hock ; it’s very good there.”

“ Hock’s about the worst thing you can drink
in training,” said Miller. “ Isn’t it, Jervis ?”

“It’s no good, certainly,”, said the Captain,
as he put on his cap and gown ; “’come along.
Miller.”

“ There, you hear ?” said Miller. “ You can
drink a glass of sound sherry, if you want wine ;”
and he followed the Captain,

Drysdale performed a defiant pantomime after
the retiring coxswain, and then easily carried his
point with Tom, except as to the hock. So they
walked up to the Mitre together, where Drys-
dale ordered dinner and a bottle of hock in the
coffee-room,

“Don’t order hock, Drysdale ; I shan’t drink
any.” •

“ Then I shall have it all to my own cheek.
If you begin making a slave of j'ourself to that
Miller, he’ll very soon cut you down to a glass
of water a day, with a pinch of rhubarb in it,
and make you drink that standing on your
heq,d.”

“Gammon ! but I don’t think it’s fair on the
rest of the crow not to train as well as one can.”

“ You don’t suppose drinking a pint of hock

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED.

to-night will make you pull any the worse this
day six weeks, when the races begin, do you ?”

“No ; but — ”

“ Hallo ! look here !” said Drysdale, who was
inspecting a printed bill pinned up on the wall
of the coffee-room; “Wombwell’s menagerie
is in the town, somewhere down by Worcester,
What fun ! We’ll go there after dinner.”

The food arrived, with Drysdale’s hock, wl’iich
he seemed to enjoy all the more from the as-
surance which every glass gave him that he was
defying the coxswain, and doing just the thing
he would most dislike. So he drank away, and
facetiously speculated how he could be such an
idiot as to go on pulling. Every day of his life
he made good resolutions in the reach above the
Gut that it should be his last performance, and
always broke them next day. He supposed the
habit he had of breaking all good resolutions
was the way to account for it.

After dinner they set off to find the wild-
beast show ; and, as they will be at least a quar-
ter of an hour reaching it, for the pitch is in a
part of the suburbs little known to gownsmen,
the opportunity may be seized of making a few
remarks to the patient reader, which impatient
readers are begged to skip.

Our hero, on his first appearance in public
some years since, was, without his own consent,
at once patted on the back by the good-natured
critics, and enrolled for better or woi’se in the
brotherhood of muscular Christians, who at that
time were beginning to be recognized as an act-
ual and lusty portion of general British life.
As his biographer, I am not about to take ex-
ceptions to his enrollment; for, after consider-
ing the persons up and down her Majesty’s do-
minions to whom the new nickname has been
applied, the principles which they are supposed
to hold, and the sort of lives they are supposed
to lead, I can not see where he could in these
times have fallen upon a nobler brotherhood.
I am speaking, of course, under correction, and
with only a slight acquaintance with the faith
of muscular Christianity, gathered almost en-
tirely from tlie witty expositions and comments
of persons of a somewhat dyspeptic habit, who
are not among the faithful themselves. Indeed,
I am not aware that any authorized articles of
belief have been sanctioned or published by the
sect. Church, or whatever they may be. More-
over, at the age at which our hero has arrived,
and having regard to his character, I should say
that he has in all likelihood thought very little
on the subject of belief, and would scarcely be
able to give any formal account of his own be-
yond that contained in the Church Catechism,
which I for one thirdc may very well satisfy him
for the present. Nevertheless, had he been sud-
denly caught at the gate of St. Ambrose’s Col-
lege by one of the gentlemen who do the classi-
fying for the British public, and accosted ^ith,
“ Sir, you belong to a body whose creed is to
fear God, and walk one thousand miles in one
thousand hours ;” I believe he would have re-
plied, “Do I, sir? I’m very glad to hear it.

They must be a very good set of fellows. How
many weeks’ training do they allow ?”

But in the course of my inquiries on the sub-
ject of muscular Christians, their works and
ways, a fact has forced itself on my attention,
which, for the sake of ingenious youth, like my
hero, ought not to be passed over. I find, then,
that, side by side with these muscular Christians,
and apparently claiming some sort of connection
with them (the same concern, as the pirates of
trade-marks say), have risen up another set of
persons, against whom I desire to caution my
readers and my hero, and to warn the latter that
I do not mean on any jiretense whatever to al-
low him to connect himself with them, however
much he may be taken with their ofi-hand,
“hail-brother well-met” manner and dress,
which may easily lead careless observers to take
the counterfeit for the true article. I must call
the persons in question “musclemen,” as distin-
guished from muscular Christians ; the only
point in common betw'een the two being that
both hold it to be a good thing to have strong
and well-exercised bodies, ready to be put at the
shortest notice to any work of which bodies are
capable, and to do it well. Here all likeness
ends; for the “muscleman” seems to have no
belief whatever as to the purposes for which his
body has been given him, except some hazy idea
that it is to go up and down the world with him,
belaboring men and captivating women for his
benefit or pleasure, at once the servant and fo-
menter of those fierce and brutal passions which
he seems to think it a necessity, and rather a fine
thing than otherwise, to indulge and obey.
Whereas, so far as I know, the least of the mus-
cular Christians has hold of the old chivalrous
and Christian belief, that a man’s body is given
him to be trained and brought into subjection,
and then used for the protection of the weak, the
advancement of all righteous causes, and the
subduing of the earth which God has given to
the children of men. He does not hold that
mere strength or activity are in themselves wor-
thy of any respect or worship, or that one man
is a bit better than another because he can
knock him down, or carry a bigger sack of pota-
toes than he. For mere power, whether of body
or intellect, he has (I hope and believe) no rever-
ence whatever, though, cceteris paribus, he would
probably himself, as a matter of taste, prefer the
man who can lift a hundred-weight round his
head with his little finger, to the man who can
construct a string of perfect Sorites, or expound
the doctrine of “contradictory inconceivables.”
The above remarks occur as our hero is march- '
ing innocently down towards his first “town and
gown” row, and I should scarcely like to see
him in the middle of it, without protesting that
it is a mistake. I know that he and other
youngsters of his kidney will have fits of fighting,
or desiring to fight with their poorer brethren, just
as children have the measles. But the shorter
the fit the better for the patient, for, like the
measles, it is a great mistake, and a most unsat-
isfactoiy complaint. If they can escape it alto-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

gether, so much the belter. But, instead of
treating the fit as a disease, “ musclemen” pro-
fessors are wont to represent it as a state of
health, and to let their disciples run about in
middle age with the measles on them as strong
as ever. Now, although our hero had the mea-
sles on him at this particular time, and the pas-
sage of arms which I am about shortly to de-
scribe led to results of some importance in his
history, and can not therefore be passed over,
yet I wish at the same time to disclaim, both in
my sponsorial and individual character, all sym-
pathy with town and gown rows, and with all
other class rows and quarrels of every sort and
kind, whether waged with sword, pen, tongue,
fist, or otherwise. Also to say that in all such
rows, so far as I have seen or read, from the time
when the Roman plebs marched out to Mons
Sacer, down to 1848, when the English chartists
met on Kennington Common, the upper classes
are most to blame. It may be that they are not
the aggressors on any given occasion : very pos-
sibly they may carry on the actual fighting with
more fairness (though this is by no means
true as a rule) ; nevertheless the state of feel-
ing which makes such things possible, especially
in England, where men in general are only too
ready to be led and taught by their superiors in
rank, may be fairly laid at their door. Even in
the case of strikes, which just now will of course
be at once thrown in my teeth, I say fearlessly.
Let any man take the trouble to study the ques-
tion honestly, and he will come to the conviction
that all combinations of the men for the purpose
of influencing the labor market, whether in the
much and unjustly abused Trades’ Societies, or
in other .forms, have been defensive organiza-
tions, and that the masters might, as a body,
over and over again have taken the sting out of
them if they would have acted fairly, as many
individuals among them have done. Whether
it may not be too late now, is a tremendous
question for England, but one which time only
can decide.

When Drysdale and Tom at last found the
caravans, it was just getting dark. Something
of a crowd had collected outside, and there was
some hissing as they ascended the short flight
of steps which led to the platform in front of
the show ; but they took no notice of it, paid
their money, and entered.

Inside they found an exciting scene. The
place was pretty well lighted, and the birds and
beasts were all alive in their several dens and
cages, walking up and down, and each uttering
remonstrances after its own manner, the shrill
notes of birds mingling with the moan of the
beasts of prey and chattering of the monkeys.
Feeding-time had been put off till night to suit
the under-graduates, and the under-graduates
were proving their appreciation of the attention
by playing off all manner of practical jokes on
birds and beasts, their keepers, and such of the
public as had been rash enough to venture in.
At the fiirther end was the keeper, who did the
showman, vainly endeavoring to go through his

usual jog-trot description. Ilis monotone was
drowned every minute by the chorus of voices,
each shouting out some new fact in natural
history touching the biped or quadruped whom
the keeper was attempting to describe. At
that day a great deal of this sort of chaff was
current, so that the most dunder-headed boy
had plenty on the tip of his tongue. A small
and indignant knot of towns-people, headed by
a stout and severe middle-aged woman, with
two big boys, her sons, followed the keeper, en-
deavoring, by caustic remarks and withering
glances, to stop the flood of chaff, and restore
the legitimate authority, and the reign of keep-
er and natural history.

At another point was a long Irishman in cap
and gown, who had clearly had as much wine
as he could carry, close to the bars of the pan-
ther’s den, through which he was earnestly en-
deavoring, with the help of a crooked stick, to
draw the tail of whichever of the beasts stopped
for a moment in its uneasy walk. On the oth-
er side were a set of men bent on burning the
wretched monkeys’ fingers with the lighted
ends of their cigars, in which they seemed suc-
cessful enough, to judge by the angry chatter-
ings and shriekings of their victims.

The two new-comers paused for a moment on
the platform inside the curtain ; and then Drys-
dale, rubbing his hands, and in high glee at the
sight of so much misrule in so small a place,
led the way down on to the floor deep in saw-
dust, exclaiming, “ Well, this is a lark ! We’re
just in for all the fun of the fair.”

Tom followed his friend, who made straight
for the showman, and planted himself at his
side, just as that worthy, pointing with his pole,
w'as proceeding :

“This is the jackal from — ”

“The Caribee Ilielands, of which I’m a na-
tive mysel’,” shouted a gownsman.

“This is the jackal, or lion’s provider,” be-
gan again the much-enduring keeper.

“Who always goes before the lion to pur-
wide his purwisions, purwiding there’s any
thing to purwide,” put in Drysdale.

“Hem — really I do think it’s scandalous not
to let the keeper tell about the beasteses,” said
the unfortunate matron, with a half turn to-
wards the persecutors, and grasping her bag.

“My dear madam,” said Drysdale, in his
softest voice, “I assure you he knows nothing
about the beasteses. We are Doctor Buck-
land’s favorite pupils, are also well known to
the great Panjandrum, and have eaten more
beasteses than the keeper has ever seen.”

“ I don’t know who you are, young man, but
you don’t know how to behave yourselves,” re-
joined the outraged female; and the keeper,
giving up the jackal as a bad job, pointing with
his pole, proceeded :

“The little hanimal in the upper cage is the
hopossum of North America — ”

“ The misguided offspring of the raccoon and
the gum-tree,” put in one of his tormentors.

Here a frightful roaring and struggling at a

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

little distance, mingled with shouts of laughter,
and “Hold on, Pat!” “Go it, panther!” in-
ten-upted the lecture, and caused a rush to the
other side, where the long Irishman, Donovan
by name, with one foot against the bars, was
holding on to the tail of one of the panthers,
which he had at length managed to catch hold
of. The next moment he was flat on his back
in the sawdust, and his victim was bounding
wildly about the cage. The keeper hurried
away to look after the outraged panther; and
Drysdale, at once installing himself as show-
man, began at the next cage —

“ This is the wild man of the woods, or whan-
gee-tangee,the most untamable — good Heavens,
ma’am, take care!” and he seized hold of the
unfortunate woman and pulled her away from
the bars.

“ Oh, goodness !” she screamed, “ it’s got my
tippet ! oh. Bill, Peter, catch hold!” Bill and
Peter proved unequal to the occasion, but a
gownsman seized the vanishing tippet, and, af-
ter a moment’s struggle with the great ape, re-
stored a meagre half to the proper owner, while
Jacko sat grinning over the other half, picking
it to pieces. The poor woman had now had
enough of it, and she hurried off with her two
boys, followed by the few towns-people who
were still in the shoAV, to lay her case directly
before the mayor, as she informed the delin-
quents from the platform before disappearing.
Her wrongs Avere likely to be more speedily
avenged, to judge by the angry murmurs which
arose outside immediately after her exit.

But still the high jinks Avent on, DonoA-an
leading all mischief, until the master of the
menagerie appeared inside and remonstrated
with the men. “ He must send for the po-
lice,” he said, “if they Avould not leave the
beasts alone. He had put off the feeding in
order to suit them ; Avould they let his keepers
feed the beasts quietly ?” The threat of the
police Avas received Avith shouts of defiance by
some of the men, though the greater part
seemed of the opinion that matters Avere get-
ting serious.

The proposal for feeding, hoAvever, Avas Avel-
comed by all, and compai'ative quiet ensued
for some ten minutes, Avhile the baskets of
joints, bread, stale fish, and potatoes Avere
brought in, and the contents distributed to the
famishing occupants of the cages. In the in-
terval of peace the shoAvman-keeper, on a hint
from his master, again began his round. But
the spirit of mischief Avas abroad, and it only
needed this to make it break out again. In
another tAvo minutes the beasts, from the lion
to the smallest monkey, Avere struggling for
their suppers Avith one or more under-gradu-
ates ; the elephant had torn the gOAvn off Dono-
A'an’s back, having only just missed his arm;
the manager, in a confusion Avorthy of the
ToAver of Babel, sent off a keeper for the city
police, and turned the gas out.

The audience, after the first moment of
surprise and indignation, groped their Avay to-

wards the steps and mounted the platform,
where they held a council of war. Should
they stay where they Avere, or make a sally at
once, break through the croAvd, and get back to
their colleges. It Avas curious to see how in
that short minute individual character came
out, and the coAvard, the cautious man, the
resolute, prompt Englishman, each Avas there,
and more than one species of each.

Donovan was one of the last up the steps,
and, as he stumbled up, caught something of
the question before the house. He shouted
loudly at once for descending and offering bat-
tle. “But, boys,” he added, “first Avait till I
adthress the meeting,” and he made for the
opening in the canvas through Avhich the out-
side platform was reached. Stump oratory
and a free fight were just the tAA'o temptations
which Donovan was wholly unable to resist ;
and it was with a face radiant Avith devil-may-
care delight that he burst through the opening,
folloAved by all the rest (who felt that the mat-
ter Avas out of their hands, and must go its
own Avay after the Irishman), and rolling to
the front of the outside platform, rested one
hand on the rail, and AAwed the other grace-
fully toAA'ards the croAvd. This Avas the signal
for a burst of defiant shouts and hissing. Dono-
van stood blandly Avaving his hand for silence.
Drysdale, running his eye over the mob, turn-
ed to the rest and said, “There’s nothing to
stop us, not twenty groAvn men in the Avhole
lot.” Then one of the men lighting upon the
drumsticks, which the usual man in corduroys
had hidden away, began beating the big drum
furiously. One of the unaccountable whims
which influence croAvds seized on the mob, and
there was almost perfect silence. This seemed
to take Donovan by surprise. The open air
Avas having the common effect on him ; he
was getting unsteady on his legs, and his
brains were Avandering. “Noav’s your time,
DonoA-an, my boy — begin.”

“Ah yes, to be sure, what’ll I say? let’s
sec,” said DonoA-an, putting his head on one
side :

“ Friends, Romans, countrymen !” suggested
some Avag.

“To be sure,” cried DonoA'an ; “Friends,
Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.”

“ Bravo, Pat, Avell begun ; pull their earsAvell
A\dien you’ve got’ em.”

“Bad luck to it! whercAvasI? you diA'cls
— I mean ladies and gentlemen of Oxford city
— as I Avas saying, the poets — ”

Then the storm of shouting and hissing
arose again, and Donovan, after an ineffectual
attempt or two to go on, leaned forAvard and
shook his fist generally at the mob. Luckily
for him, there Avere no stones about ; but one
of the crowd, catching the first missile at
hand, wdiich happened to be a cabbage-stalk,
sent it with true aim at the enraged orator.
He jerked his head on one side to avoid it ; the
motion unsteadied his cap; he threw up his
hand, which, instead of catching the falling cap,

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

as it was meant to do, sent it spinning among
the crowd below. The owner, without a mo-
ment’s hesitation, clapped both hands on the
bar before him and followed his property, vault-
ing over on to the heads of those nearest the
platform, among whom he fell, scattering them
right and left.

“ Come on, gown, or he’ll he murdered,” sang
out one of Donovan’s friends. Tom was one
of the first down the steps. They ruslied to the
spot in another moment, and the Irishman rose,
plastered with dirt, but otherwise none the worse
for his feat ; his cap, covered with mud, was
proudly stuck on, hind part before. He was
of course thirsting for battle, but not quite so
much master of his strength as usual ; so his
two friends, who were luckily strong and big
men, seized him, one to each arm.

“ Come along, keep together,” was the word ;
“there’s no time to lose. Push for the corn-
market.”

The cry of “Town ! town !” now rose on all
sides. The gownsmen in a compact body, with
Donovan in the middle, pushed rapidly across
the open s])ace in which the caravans were set
up and gained the street. Here they were com-
paratively safe : they were followed close, but
could not be surrounded by the mob. And now
again a by-stander might have amused himself
by noting the men’s characters. Three or four
pushed rapidly on, and were out of sight ahead
in no time. The greater part, without showing
any actual signs of fear, kept steadily on at a
good pace. Close behind these, Donovan strug-
gled violently with his two conductors, and
shouted defiance to the town ; while a small and
silent rear-guard, among whom were Tom and
Drysdale, walked slowly and, to all appearance,
carelessly behind, within a few yards of the
crowd of shouting boys who headed the advanc-
ing town. Tom himself felt his heart beating
quick, and I don’t think had any particular de-
sire for the fighting to begin, with such long
odds on the town side; but he was resolved to
be in it as soon as any one if there was to be
any. Thus they marched through one or two
streets without any thing more serious than an
occasional stone passing their ears. Another
turn would have brought them into the open
parts of the town, within hearing of the colleges,
when suddenly Donovan broke loose from his
supporters, and, rushing with a shout on the ad-
vanced guard of the town, drove them back in
confusion for some yards. The only thing to
do was to back him up ; so the rear-guard,
shouting “Gown! gown!” charged after him.
The effect of the onset was like that of Blount
at Flodden, W'hen he saw Marrnion’s banner go
down — a wide space w^as cleared for a moment,
the town driven back on to the pavements, and

away again some paces towards college. But ■
the charging body was too few in number to j
improve tlie first success, or even to insure its
own retreat. “ Darkly closed the war around.” ,

The town lapped on them from the pavements,
and poured on them down the middle of the
street, before they had time to rally and stand
together again. What happened to the rest —
who was down, who up, wlio fought, who fled —
Tom had no time to inquire ; for he found him-
self suddenly the centre of a yelling circle of
enemies. So he set his teeth and buckled to
his work ; and the thought of splendid single
combat, and glory such as he had read of in col-
lege stories, and tradition handing him down
as the hero of that great night, flashed into his
head as he cast his eye round for foemcn worthy
of his steel. None such appeared ; so, selecting
the one most of his own size, he squared and
advanced on him. But the challenged one de-
clined the combat, and kept retreating; while
from behind and the sides one after another of
the “ town,” rushing out, dealt Tom a blow and
vanished again into the crowd. For a moment
or two he kept his head and temper ; the assail-
ants individually were too insignificant to put
out his strength upon ; but head and temper
were rapidly going ; he was like a bull in the
arena Avith the picadores sticking their little
javelins in him. A smart blow on the nose,
which set a myriad of stars dancing before his
eyes, finished the business, and he rushed after
the last assailant, dealing blows to right and
left, on small and great. The mob closed in on
him, still avoiding attacks in front, but on flank
and rear they hung on him and battered at him.
He had to turn sharply round after every step
to shake himself clear, and at each turn the
press thickened, the shouts waxed louder and
fiercer ; he began to get unsteady ; tottered,
swayed, and, stumbling over a prostrate youth,
at last went down full length on to the pave-
ment, carrying a couple of his assailants with
him. And now it would have fared hai'dly with
him, and he would scarcely have reached col-,
lege with sound bones — for 1 am sorry to say
an Oxford town mob is a cruel and brutal one,
and a man who is down has no chance with it
— but that for one moment he and his prostrate
foes were so jumbled together that the town
could not get at him, and the next the cry of
“Gown! gown !” rose high above the din ; the
town Avere SAvept back again by the rush of a re-
inforcement of gownsmen, the leader of Avhom
seized him by the shoulders and put him on his
legs again ; while his late antagonists craAvled
away to the side of the road.

“ Why, BroAvn !” said his rescuer — Jervis, the
Captain — “ this you ? Not hurt, ch?”

“Not a bit,” said Tom.

“Good; come on, then; stick to mo.” In
three steps they joined the rest of the gOAvn, noAv
numbering some tAventy men. The mob Avas
close before them, gathering for another rush.
Tom felt a cruel, Avild devil beginning to rise in
him ; he had never felt the like before. This
■ time he longed for the next crash, Avhich, happi-
1 ly for him, Avas fated never to come off.

I “ Your names and colleges, gentlemen,” said
a voice close behind them at this critical mo-

TOM BROWN AT OXi'ORD.

ment. The “town” set up a derisive shout,
and, turning round, the gownsmen found the
velvet sleeves of one of the proctors at their el-
bow, and his satellites, vulgarly called bull-
dogs, taking notes of them. They were com-
pletely caught, and so quietly gave the required
information.

“ You will go to your colleges at once,” said
the proctor, “and remain within gates. You
will see these gentlemen to the High Street,”
he added to his marshal ; and then strode on af-
ter the crowd, which was vanishing down the
street.

The men turned and strolled towards the
High Street, the marshal keeping, in a deferen-
tial hut wide-awake manner, pi'etty close to
them, but without making any show of watching

them. When they reached the High Street he
touched his hat, and said, civilly, “I hope you
will go home now, gentlemen ; the senior proc-
tor is very strict.”

“All right, marshal: good-night,” said the
good-natured ones.

“ D his impudence !” growled one or two

of the rest, and the marshal bustled away after
his master. The men looked at one another for
a moment or two. They were of ditferent col-
leges, and strangers. The High Street was qui-
et ; so, without the exchange of a word, after the
manner of British youth, they broke up into twos
and threes, and parted. Jervis, Tom, and Drys-
dale, who turned up quite undamaged, saunter-
ed together towards St. Ambrose’s.

“I say, where are we going?” said Drysdale.

“Not to college, I vote,” said Tom.

“ No, there may be some more fun.”

“ Mighty poor fun, I should say, you’ll find
it,” said Jervis; “however, if you will stay, I
suppose I must. I can’t leave you two boys by
yourselves.”

, “Come along then, down here.” So they
turned down one of the courts leading out of the
High Street, and so by back streets bore up again
for the disturbed districts.

“Mind and keep a sharp look-out for the
proctors,” said Jervis; “as much row as you
please, but we mustn’t be caught again.”

“ Well, only let’s keep together if we have to
bolt.”

They promenaded in lonely dignity for some
five minutes, keepingeyes and ears on fullstrain.

“1 tell you what,” said Drysdale, at last, “ it
isn’t fair, these enemies in the camp ; w'hat with
the ‘ town ’ and their stones and fists, and the
proctors with their ‘ name and college,’ we’ve
got the wrong end of the stick.”

“Both wrong ends, I can tell you,” said Jer-
vis. “ Hallo, Brown, your nose is bleeding.”

“ Is it?” said Tom, drawing his hand across
his face ; “ ’twas that confounded little fellow,

then, who ran up to my side while I was squar-

ing at the long party. I felt a sharp crack, and
the little rascal bolted into the crowd before I
could turn at him.” j

“Cut and come again,” said Drysdale, laugh- |
ing. , !

“Aye, that’s the regular thing in these black-
guard street squabbles. Here they come, then, '
said Jervis. “ Steady, all !”

They turned round to face the town, which
came shouting down the street behind them in
pursuit of one gownsman, a little, harmless, qui-
et fellow, who had fallen in with them on his
way back to his college from a tea with his tu-
tor, and, like a wise man, was giving them leg-
bail as hard as he could foot it. But the little
man was of a courageous, though prudent soul,
and turned, panting and gasping, on his foes
the moment he found himself among friends
again.

“ Now, then, stick together; don’t let them
get round us,” said Jervis. ,

They walked steadily down the street, which
was luckily a narrow one, so that three of them
could keep the whole of it, hailing and showing
front every few yards, when the crowd pressed
too much. “ Down with them ! Town ! town !
That’s two as was in the show.” “ Mark the
velvet-capped chap. Town ! town !” shouted the
hinder part of the mob; but it was a rabble of
boys, as before, and the front rank took very
good care of itself, and forbore from close quar-
ters.

The small gownsman had now got his wind
again ; and, smarting under the ignominy of his
recent flight, -was always a pace or two nearer
the crowd than the other three, ruffling up like
a little bantam, and shouting defiance between
the catchings of his breath.

“You vagabonds! you cowards! Come on
now, I say ! Gown ! gown !” And at last, em-
boldened by the repeated halts of the mob, and
thirsting for revenge, he made a dash at one of
the nearest of the enemy. The suddenness of
the attack took both sides by surprise, then came
a rush by two or three of the town to the rescue.

“ No, no ! stand back — one at a time,” shout-
ed the Captain, throwing himself between the
combatants and the mob. “Go it, little ’un!
serve him out. Keep the rest back, boys :
steady !” Tom and Drysdale faced towards the
crowd, while the little gownsman and his antag-
onist— who defended himself vigorously enough
now — came to close quarters in the rear of the
gown line ; too close to hurt one another, but
what with hugging and cuffing, the townsman
in another half-minute was sitting quietly on
the pavement with his back against the wall,
his enemy squaring in front of him, and daring
him to renew the combat. “ Get up, you cow-
ard ! get up, I say, you coward ! He won’t get
up,” said the little man, eagerly, turning to the
Captain. “ Shall I give him a kick ?”

“No, let the cur alone,” replied Jarvis.
“Now, do any more of you want to fight?
Come on, like men, one at a time. I’ll fight
any man in the crowd.”

Whether the challenge Avould have been
answered must rest uncertain ; for now the
i crowd began to look back, and a cry arose,

I “ Here they are, proctors! now they’ll run.”

! “ So we must, by Jove, Brown,” said the

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

Captain. “ What’s your college ?” to the little
hero.

“ Pembroke.”

“Cut away, then ; }-ou’re close at home.”

“Very well, if I must: good-night,” and
away went the small man as fast as lie had
come ; and it has never been heard that he came
to further grief or performed other feats that
night.

“ Hang it, don’t let’s run,” said Drysdale.

“Is it the proctors?” said Tom. “I can’t
sec them.”

“ Murk the bloody-faced one; kick liim over!”
sang^out a voice in the crowd.

“Thank’ee,” said Tom, savagely. “Let’s
have one rush at them.”

“ Look ! there’s the proctor’s cap just through
them ; come along, boys — well, stay if you like,
and be rusticated, I’m off and away went Jer-
vis, and the next moment Tom and Drysdale
followed the good example, and, as they had to
run, made the best use of their legs, and in two
minutes were well ahead of their pursuers.
They turned a corner : “ Here, Brown ! alight
in this public ; cut in, and it’s all right.” Next
moment they were in the dark passage of a quiet
little inn, and heard with a chuckle part of the
crowd scurry by the door in pursuit, while they
themselves suddenly appeared in the neat little
bar, to the no small astonishment of its occu-
pants. These were a stout elderly woman in
spectacles, who was stitching away at plain work
in an arm-chair on one side of the fire ; the fore-
man of one of the great boat-buildei’s, who sat
opposite her, smoking his pipe, with a long glass
of clear ale at his elbow ; and a bright-eyed,
neat-handed bar-maid, who was leaning against
the table, and talking to the others as they en-
tered.

CHAPTER XII.

THE captain’s NOTIONS.

The old lady dropped her work, the bar-maid
turned round with a start and little ejaculation,
and the foreman stared with all his eyes for a
moment, and then, jumping up, exclaimed :

“ Bless us, if it isn’t Muster Drysdale and
Muster Brown, of Ambrose’s ! Why what’s the
matter, sir ? Muster Brown, you be all cover-
ed wi’ blood, sir.”

‘ ‘ Oh dear me ! poor young gentleman !” cried
the hostess. “ Here, Patty, run and tell Dick
to go for the doctor, and get the best room — ”
“No, please don’t; it’s nothing at all,” in-
terrupted Tom, laughing ; “a basin of cold wa-
ter and a towel, if you please. Miss Patty, and
I shall be quite presentable in a minute. I’m
very sorry to have frightened you all.”

Drysdale joined in assurances that it was
nothing but a little of his friend’s “claret,”
which he would be all the better for losing, and
watched with an envious eye the interest depict-
ed in Patty’s pretty face, as she hurried in with
■> basin of fresh-pumped water and held the

towel. Tom bathed his face, and very soon
was as respectable a member of society as usu-
al, save for a slight swelling on one side of his
nose.

Drysdale meantime — seated on the table —
had been explaining the circumstances to the
landlady and the foreman. “ And now,
ma’am,” said he, as Tom joined them and seat-
ed himself on a vacant chair, “I’m sure you
must draw famous ale.”

“Indeed, sir, I think Dick — that’s my hostler,
sir — is as good a brewer as is in the town. We
always brews at home, sir, and I hope always
shall.”

“Quite right, ma’am, quite right,” said Drys-
dale ; “and I don’t think we can do better than
follow Jem here. Let us have a jug of the
same ale as he is drinking. And you’ll take
a glass with us, Jem ? or will you have spir-
its ?”

Jem was for another glass of ale, and bore
witness to its being the best in Oxford, and Pat-
ty drew the ale, and supplied two more long
glasses. Drysdale, with apologies, produced
his cigar-case ; and Jem, under the influence
of the ale and a first-rate Havana (for which
he deserted his pipe, though he did not enjoy it
half as much), volunteered to go and rouse the
yard and conduct them safely back to college.
This offer was of course politely declined, and
then, Jem’s hour for bed having come, he being
a methodical man, as. became his position, de-
parted, and left our two young friends in sole
possession of the bar. Nothing could have suit-
ed the two young gentlemen better, and they
set to work to make themselves agreeable. They
listened with lively interest to the landlady’s
statement of the difficulties of a widow woman
in a house like hers, and to her praises of her
factotum Dick, and her niece Patty. They ap-
plauded her resolution of not bringing up her
two boys in the publican line, though they could
offer no very available answer to her appeals for
advice as to what trade they should be put to ;
all trades were so full, and things were not as
they used to be. The one thing, apparently,
which was wanting to the happiness of Drysdale
at Oxford was the discovery of such beer as he
had at last found at “The Choughs.” Dick was
to come up to St. Ambrose’s the first thing in
the morning and carry off his barrel, which
would never contain in future any other liquid.
At last that worthy appeared in the bar to know
when he was to shut up, and was sent out by
his mistress to see that the street was clear, for
which service he received a shilling, though his
offer of escort was declined. And so, after pay-
ing in a splendid manner for their entertain-
ment, they found themselves in the street, and
set off for college, agreeing on the way that “The
Choughs” was a great find, the old lady the best
old soul in the world, and Patty the prettiest
girl in Oxford. They found the streets quiet,
and walking quickly along them, knocked at the
college gates at half past eleven. The stout
porter received them with a long face.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ Senior proctor’s sent down here an hour
back, gentlemen, to find whether you was in
college.”

“You don’t mean that, porter? How kind
of him ! What did you say ?”

“ Said I didn’t know, sir ; but the marshal
said, if you come in after, that you was to go to
the senior proctor’s at half- past nine to-mor-
row.”

“ Send my compliments to the senior proc-
tor,” said Drysdale, “and say I have a very
particular engagement to - morrow morning,
which will prevent my having the pleasui'e of
calling on him.”

“Very good, sir,” said the porter, giving a
little dry chuckle, and tapping the keys against
his leg ; “only perhaps you wouldn’t mind writ-
ing him a note, sir, as he is rather a particular
gentleman.”

“ Didn’t he send after any one else?” said
Tom.

“ Yes, sir ; Mr. Jervis, sir.”

“ Well, and what about him ?”

“Oh, sir, Mr. Jervis! an old hand, sir.
He’d been in gates a long time, sir, when the
marshal came.”

“The sly old beggar!” said Drysdale.
“Good-night, porter; mind you send my mes-
sage to the proctor. If he is set on seeing me
to-morrow, you can say that he will find a
broiled chicken and a hand at picquet in my
rooms, if he likes to drop in to lunch.”

The porter looked after them for a moment,
and then retired to his deep old chair in the
lodge, pulled his night-cap over his ears, put
up his feet before the fire on a high stool, and
folded his hands on his lap. “The most im-
pidentest thing on the face of the earth is a
gcn’l’man-commoner in his first year,” solilo-
quized the little man. “ Twould ha’ done that
one a sight of good, now, if he’d got a good
hiding in the street to-night. But he’s better
than-most on ’em, too,” he went on ; “ uncom-
mon free with his tongue, but just as free with
his arf-sovereigns. Well, I’m not going to
peach if the proctor don’t send again in the
morning. That sort’s good for the college —
makes things brisk ; has his loin fi'om town,
and don’t keep no keys. I wonder now if my
Peter’s been out a fighting ? He’s pretty nigh
as hard to manage, is that boy, as if he was at
college hisself.”

And so, muttering over his domestic and pro-
fessional grievances, the small janitor composed
himself to a nap. I may add, parenthetically,
that his hopeful Peter, a precocious youth of
seventeen, scout’s boy on No. 3 staircase- of St.
Ambrose’s College, w’as represented in the boot-
cleaning and errand line by a substitute for
some days ; and when he returned to duty was
minus a front tooth.

“What fools we were not to stick to the
Captain. I wonder what Ave shall get,” said
Tom, who was troubled in his mind at the
proctor’s message, and not gifted naturally with
the recklessness and contempt of authority

which in Drysdale’s case approached the sub-
lime.

“Who cares ? I’ll be bound now the old fox
came straight home to earth. Let’s go and
knock him up.”

Tom assented, for he was anxious to con-
sult Jervis as to his proceedings in the morn-
ing ; so they soon found themselves drumming
at his oak, which was opened shortly by “the
stroke ” in an old boating-jacket. They follow-
ed him in. At one end of his table stood his
tea-service and the remains of his commons,
which the scout had not cleared away ; at the
other, open books, note-books, and maps show-
ed that the Captain read, as he rowed — “hard
all.”

“ Well, are you two only just in ?”

“Only just, my Captain,” answered Drys-
dale.

“Have you been well thrashed, then ? You
don’t look much damaged.”

“ We are innocent of fight since your sud-
den departure — flight shall I call it ? — my Cap-
tain.”

“Where have you been ?”

“Where! Avhy in the paragon of all pot-
houses ; snug little bar Avith red curtains ; stout
old benevolent female in spectacles ; bar-maid a
houri; and for malt, the most touching tap in
Oxford — home-brewed, too, Avasn’t it, BroAvn ?”
“Yes, the beer was undeniable,” said Tom.

“ Well, and you dawdled there till noAV ?”
said Jervis.

“ Even so. What with mobs that Avouldn’t
flght fair, and captains Avho Avould run aAvay,
and proctors and marshals Avho Avould interfere,
Ave were ‘perfectly disgusted Avith the Avhole
proceedings,’ as the Scotchman said Avhen he
Avas sentenced to be hanged.”

“Well! HeaA’en, they say, protects children,
sailors, and drunken men ; and AvhateA'er an-
SAvers to Heaven in the academical system pro-
tects freshmen,” remarked Jervis.

“Not us. at any rate,” said Tom, “for we
are to go to the proctor to-morroAV morning.”
“What! did he catch you in your famous
public ?”

“No; the marshal came round to the por-
ter’s lodge, asked if Ave Avere in, and left Avord
that, if we Avere not, Ave Avere to go to him in the
morning. The porter told us just noAv as Ave
came in.”

“PshaAv!” said the Captain, with disgust;
“noAv you’ll both be gated probably, and the
whole creAV Avill be throAvn out of gear. Why
couldn’t you have come home when I did ?”

“ We do not propose to attend the levee of
that excellent person in office to-morroAV morn-
ing,” said Drysdale. “ He will forget all about
it. Old Copas Avon’t say a Avord — catch him.
He gets too much out of me for that.”

“Well, you’ll see; I’ll back the proctor’s
memory.”

“But, Captain, what are you going to
stand ?”

“Stand! nothing, unless you like a eup of

TOxAI BROWN AT OXFORD.

cold tea. You’ll get no wine or spirits here at
this time at night, and the buttery is shut.
Besides, you’ve had quite as much beer as is
good for you at your paragon public.”

“Come, now. Captain, just two glasses of
sherry, and I’ll promise to go to bed.”

“ Not a thimbleful.”

“ You old tyrant !” said Drysdalc, hopping
off his perch on the elbow of the sofa. “ Come
along, Brown ; let’s go and draw for some sup-
per, and a hand at Van- John. There’s sure to
be some going up my staircase ; or, at any rate,
there’s a cool bottle of claret in my rooms.”

“Stop and have a talk, Brown,” said the
Captain, and prevailed against Drysdale, who,
after another attempt to draw Tom off, depart-
ed on his quest for drink and cards.

“ He’ll never do for the boat, I’m afraid,”
said the Captain, “with his rascally late hours,
and drinking and eating all sorts of trash. It’s
a pity, too, for he’s a pretty oar for his weight.”

“He is such uncommon good company, too,”
said Tom.

“Yes; but I’ll tell you what. He’s just a
leetle too good company for you and me, or any
fellows who mean to take a degree. Let’s see,
this is only his third term. I’ll give him, per-
haps, two more to make the place too hot to
hold him. Take my word for it, he’ll never get
to his little-go.”

“ It will be a great pity, then,” said Tom.

“ So it will. But after all, you see, what
does it matter to him? He gets rusticated;
takes his name off with a flourish of trumpets
— what then ? He falls back on £5000 a year
in land, and a good accumulation in consols ;
runs abroad, or lives in town for a year. Takes
the hounds when he comes of age, or is singled
out by some discerning constituency and sent
to make laws for his country, having spent the
whole of his life hitherto in breaking all the laws
he ever came under. You and I, perhaps, go
fooling about with him, and get rusticated. We
make our friends miserable. We can’t take our
names off, but have to come cringing back at the
end of our year, marked men. Keep our tails
between our legs for the rest of our time. Lose
a year at our professions, and most likely have
the slip casting up against us in one way or
another for the next twenty years. It’s like the
old story of the giant and the dwarf, or like
fighting a sweep, or any other one-sided busi-
ness.”

“But I’d sooner have to fight my own way
in the world, after all; wouldn’t you?” said
Tom.

“H — m — ml” said the Captain, throwing
himself back in the chair, and smiling; “can’t
answer off-hand. I’m a third-year man, and
begin to see the other side rather clearer than
I did when I was a freshman like you. Three
years at Oxford, my boy, will teach you some-
thing of what rank and money count for, if
they teach you nothing else.”

“ Why here’s the Captain singing the same
song as Hardy,” thought Tom.

“ So you two have to go to the proctor to-
morrow ?”

“ Yes.”

“ Shall you go ? Drysdale won’t.”

“Of course I shall. It seems to me child-
ish not to go ; as if I were back in the lower
school again. To tell you the truth, the being
sent for isn’t pleasant ; but the other I couldn’t
stand.”

“Well, I don’t feel any thing of that sort.
But I think you’re right, on the whole. The
chances are that he’ll remember your name,
and send for you again if you don’t go; and
then you’ll be Avorse off.”

“ You don’t think he’ll rusticate us, or any
thing of that sort?” said Tom, who had felt
horrible twinges at the Captain’s picture of the
effects of rustication on ordinary mortals.

“ No ; not unless he’s in a very bad humor.
I was caught three times in one night in my
freshman’s term, and only got an imposition.”
“ Then I don’t care,” said Tom. “But it’s
a bore to have been caught in so seedy an af-
fair ; if it had been a real good roAV, one wouldn’t
have minded so mueh.”

“Why, what did you expect? It was nei-
ther better nor tvorse than the common run of
such things.”

“Well, but three parts of the crowd were
boys.”

“So they are always — or nine times out of
ten, at any rate.”

“But there Avas no real fighting ; at least, I
only knoAv I got none.”

“ There isn’t any real fighting, as you call it,
nine times out of ten.”

“ What is there, then ?”

“Why, something of this sort: Five shop-
boys, or scouts’ boys, full of sauciness, loiter-
ing at an out-of-the-Avay street corner. Enter
two freshmen, full of dignity and bad Avine.
Explosion of inflammable material. Freshmen
mobbed into High Street or Broad Street, where
the tables are turned by the gathering of many
more freshmen, and the mob of town boys quiet-
ly subsides, puts its hands in its pockets, and
ceases to shout ‘ Town ! town !’ The triumph-
ant freshmen march up and down for perhaps
half an hour, shouting ‘Gown! goAvn!’ and
looking furious, but not half sorry that the mob
vanishes like mist at their approach. Then
come the proctors, who hunt doAvn and break
up the gown in some half hour or hour. The
‘ toAvn ’ again marches about in the ascendant,
and mobs the scattered freshmen, Avherever they
can be caught in very small numbers.”

“ But, Avith all your chaff about freshmen,
Captain, you Avere in it yourself to-night ; come
noAv.”

“Of course, Iliad to look after you two
boys.”

“But you didn’t knoAV we were in it when
you came up.”

“ I was sure to find some of you. Besides,
I’ll admit one don’t like to go in Avhile there’s
any eliance of a real row, as you eall it, and so

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

gets proctorized in one’s old age for one’s pa-
triotism.”

“Were you ever in a real row ?” said Tom.
“Yes, once, about a year ago. The fight-
ing numbers were about equal, and the town all
grown men — laborers and mechanics. It was
desperate liard work, none of your shouting and
promenading. That Hardy, one of our Bible
clerks, fought like a Paladin. I know I shifted
a fellow in corduroys on to him, whom I had
found an uncommon tough customer, and never
felt better pleased in ray life than when I saw
the light glance on his hobnails as he went over
into the gutter two minutes afterwards. It
lasted perhaps ten minutes, and both sides were
very glad to draw off.”

“ But of course you licked them ?”

“ We said we did.”

“Well, I believe that a gentleman will al-
ways lick in a fair fight.”

“ Of course you do, it’s the orthodox belief.”
“ But don’t you ?”

“ Yes ; if he is as big and strong, and knows
how to fight as well as the other. The odds
are that he cares a little more for giving in, and
that will pull him through.”

“ That isn’t saying much, though.”

“No, but it’s quite as much as is true. I’ll
tell you what it is, I think just this — that we are
generally better in the fighting way than shop-
keepers, clerks, flunkies, and all fellows who
don’t work hard with their bodies all day ; but
the moment you come to the real hard-fisted
fellow, used to nine or ten hours’ work a day,
he’s a cruel hard customer. Take seventy or
eighty of them at haphazard, the first you meet,
and turn them into St. Ambrose any morning —
by night, I take it, they would be lords of this
venerable establishment if we had to fight for the
possession; except, perhaps, for that Hardy —
he’s one of a thousand, and was born for a fight-
ing man ; perhaps he might puli us through.”

“ Why don’t you try him in the boat?”
“Miller manages all that. I spoke to him
about it after that row, but he said that Hardy
had refused to subscribe to the club — said he
couldn’t afford it or something of the sort. I
don’t see why that need mattei', myself ; but I
suppose, as we have rules, we ought to stick to
them.”

“ It’s a gi'eat pity, though. I know Hardy
well, and you can’t think what a fine fellow he
is.”

‘ ‘ I’m sure of that. I tried to know him, and
we don’t get on badly as speaking aequaintance.
But he seems a queer, solitary bird.”

Twelve o’clock struck ; so Tom wished the
Captain good-night and departed, meditating
much on what he had heard and seen. The
vision of terrific single combats, in which the
descendant of a hundred earls polishes off the
huge representative of the masses in the most
finished style, without a scratch on his own aris-
tocratic features, had faded from his mind.

He went to bed that night fairly sickened
with his experience of a town and gown row,

and with a nasty taste in his mouth. But he
felt much pleased at having drawn out the Cap-
tain so completely. For “ the stroke ” was in
general a man of marvellous few words, having
many better uses than talking to put his breath
to.

Next morning he attended at the proctor’s
rooms at the appointed time, not wdthout some
feeling of shame at having to do so ; which,
however, wore off when he found some dozen
men of other colleges waiting about on the same
errand as himself. In his turn he was ushered
in, and, as he stood by the door, had time to
look the great man over as he sat making a note
of the case he had just disposed of. The in-
spection was reassuring. The proctor was a
gentlemanly, straightforward-looking man of
about thirty, not at all donnish, and his address
answered to his appearance.

“ Mr. Brown, of St. Ambrose’s, I think ?” he
said.

“ Yes, sir.”

‘ ‘ I sent you to your college yesterday even-
ing : did you go straight home ?”

“No, sir.”

“ How was that, Mr. Brown ?”

Tom made no answer, and the proctor looked
at him steadily for a few seconds, and then re-
peated ;

“ How was that?”

“ Well, sir,” said Tom, “ I don’t mean to say
I was going straight to college, but I should
have been in long before you sent, only I fell in
with the mob again, and then there was a cry
that you were coming. And so — ” He paused.

“ Well ?” said the proctor, with a grim sort
of curl about the corners of his mouth.

“ Why, I ran away, and turned into the first
place which was open, and stopped till the
streets were quiet.”

“A public house, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir ; ‘ The Choughs.’ ”

The proctor considered a minute, and again
scrutinized Tom’s look and manner, which cer-
tainly were straightfonvard, and without any
tinge of cringing or insolence.

“ How long have you been up ?”

“ This is my second term, sir.”

“ You have never been sent to me before, I
think ?”

“Never, sir.”

“ Well, I can’t overlook this, as you yourself
confess to a direct act of disobedience. You
must write me out two hundred lines of Virgil.
And now, Mr. Brown, let me advise you to keep
out of these disreputable street quarrels in fu-
ture. Good-morning.”

Tom hurried away wondering what it would
feel like to be writing out Virgil again as a pun-
ishment at his time of life, but glad above meas-
ure that the proctor had asked him no questions
about his companion. That hero was, of course,
mightily tickled at the result, and seized the oc-
casion to lecture Tom on his future conduct,
holding himself up as a living example of the
benefits which were sure to accrue to a man who

TOM BROWN AT OXI’ORD.

never did any thing he was told to do. The
soundness of his reasoning, however, was some-
what shaken by the Dean, who on that same
afternoon, managed to catch him in quad ; and,
carrying him off, discoursed with him concern-
ing his various and systematic breaches of dis-
cipline, pointed out to him that he had already
made such good use of his time that if lie were
to be discommonsed for three more days he
w’ould lose his term ; and then took off his cross,
gave him a book of Virgil to write out, and
gated him for a fortnight after hall. Drysdale
sent out a scout to order his punishment as he
might have ordered a waistcoat, presented old
Copas with a half-sovereign, and then dismissed
punishment and gating from his mind. He cul-
tivated with great success the science of mental
gymnastics, or throwing every thing the least un-
pleasant off his mind at once. And no doubt
it is a science worthy of all cultivation, if one de-
sires to lead a comfortable life. It gets harder,
however, as the years roll over us, to attain to
any satisfactory proficiency in it; so that it
should be mastered as early in life as may be.

The town and gown row was the talk of the
college for the next week. Tom of course talk-
ed much about it, like his neighbors, and con-
fided to one and another the captain’s heresies.
They were all incredulous ; for no one had ever
heard him talk as much in a term as Tom re-
ported him to have done on this one evening.

So it was resolved that he should be taken to
task on the subject on the first opportunity ; and,
as nobody was afraid of him, there was no difficul-
ty in finding a man to bell the cat. According-
ly at the next wine of the boating set, the Cap-
tain had scarcely entered when he was assailed
by the host with :

“ Jervis, Brown says you don’t believe a gen-
tleman can lick a cad, unless he is the biggest
and strongest of the two.”

The Captain, who hated coming out with his
beliefs, shrugged his shoulders, sipped his wine,
and tried to turn the subject. But, seeing that
they were all bent on drawing him out, he was
not the man to run from his guns ; and so said,
quietly,

“No more I do.”

Notwithstanding the reverence in which he
was held, this saying could not be allowed to
pass, and a dozen voices were instantly raised,
and a dozen authentic stories told to confute
him. He listened patiently, and then, seeing
he was in for it, said :

“ Never mind fighting. Try something else ;
cricket, for instance. The players generally
beat the gentlemen, don’t they ?”

“ Yes ; but they are professionals.”

“Well, and we don’t often get a university
crew which can beat the watermen?”

“ Professionals again.”

“I believe the markers are the best tennis-
players, ain’t they ?” persevered the Captain ;
“and I generally find keepers and huntsmen
shooting and riding better than their masters,
don’t you ?”

“But that’s not fair. All the cases you put
are those of men who have nothing else to do,
who live by the things which gentlemen only
take up for pleasure.”

“ I only say that the cads, as you call them,
manage, somehow or another, to do them best,”
said the Captain.

“ How about the army and navy? The of-
ficers always lead.”

“ Well, there they’re all professionals, at any
rate,” said the Captain. “I admit that the of-
ficers lead ; but the men follow pretty close.
And in a forlorn hope there are fifty men to one
officer, after all.”

“But they must be led. The men will nev-
er go without an officer to lead.”

“It’s the officers’ business to lead, I know;
and they do it. But you won’t find the best
judges talking as if the men wanted much lead-
ing. Read Napier : the finest story in his book
is of the sergeant who gave his life for his boy
officer’s — your namesake, Browfl — at the Coa.”

“Well, I never thought to hear you crying
down gentlemen.”

“I’m not crying down gentlemen,” said the
Captain. “ I only say that a gentleman’s flesh
and blood and brains are just the same, and no
better than another man’s. He has all the
chances on his side in the way of training, and
pretty near all the prizes ; so it would be hard
if he didn’t do most things better than poor men.
But give them the chance of training, and they
will tread on his heels soon enough. That’s all
I say.”

That was all, certainly, that the Captain said,
and then relapsed into his usual good-tempered
monosyllabic state ; from which all the eager-
talk of the men, who took up the cudgels natu-
rally enough for their own class, and talked
themselves before the wine broke up into a re-
newed consciousness of their natural superiority,
failed again to rouse him.

This was, in fact, the Captain’s weak point,
if he had one. He had strong beliefs himself ;
one of the strongest of which was, that nobody
could be taught any thing except by his own ex-
perience ; so he never, or very rarely, exercised
his own personal influence, but just quietly went
his own way, and let other men go theirs. An-
other of his beliefs was, that there was no man
or thing in the world too bad to be tolerated ;
faithfully acting up to which belief, the Ca.ptain
himself tolerated persons and things intoler-
able.

Bearing which facts in mind, the reader will
easily guess the result of the application which
the crew duly made to him the day after Miller’s
back was turned. He simply said that the
'training they proposed would not be enough,
and that he himself should take all who chose
to go down to Abingdon twice a week. From
that time there were many defaulters ; and the
spirit of Diogenes groaned within him, as day
after day the crew had to be filled up from the
torpid or by watermen. Drysdale would ride
down to Sandford, meeting the boat on its way

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

up, and then take his place for the pull up to
Oxford, while his groom rode his horse up to
Folly bridge to meet him. There he would
mount again and ride olf to Bullingdon, or to
the Isis, or Quentin, or other social meeting
equally inimical to good training. Blake often
absented himself three days in a week, and oth-
er men once or twice.

From considering which facts, Tom came to
understand the difference between his two he-
roes; their strong likeness in many points he
had seen from the first. They were alike in
truthfulness, bravery, bodily strength, and in
most of their opinions. But Jervis worried
himself about nothing, and let all men and
things alone, in the belief that the world was
not going so very wrong, or would ?;ight itself
somehow without him. Hardy, on the other
hand, was consuming his heart over every thing
that seemed to him to be going wrong in him-
self and round about him — in the college, in
Oxford, in England, in the ends of the earth,
and never letting slip a chance of trying to set
right here a thread and there a thread. A
self-questioning, much-enduring man ; a slayer
of dragons himself, and one with whom you
could not live much without getting uncomfort-
ably aware of the dragons which you also had
to slay.

What wonder that, apart altogether from the
difference in their social position, the one man
was ever becoming more and more popular,
while the other was left more and more to him-
self. There are few of us at Oxford or elsewhere
who do not like to see a man living a brave and
righteous life, so long as he keeps clear of us ;
and still fewer who do like to be in constant
contact with one who, not content with so living
himself, is always coming across them, and lay-
ing bare to them their own faint-heartedness,
and sloth, and meanness. The latter, no doubt,
inspires the deeper feeling, and lays hold with a
firmer grip of the men he does lay hold of, but
they are few. For men can’t keep always up
to high-pressure till they have found firm ground
to build upon, altogether outside of themselves ;
and it is hard to be thankful and fair to those
who are showing us, time after time, that our
foothold is nothing but shifting sand.

The contrast between Jervis and Hardy now
began to force itself daily more and more on our
hero’s attention. From the night of the town
and gown row, “ The Choughs” became a reg-
ular haunt of the St. Ambrose crew, who were
taken there under the guidance of Tom and
Drysdale the next day. Not content with call-
ing there on his way from the boats, there was
seldom an evening now that Tom did not man-
age to drop in and spend an hour there.

When one is very much bent on doing a thing,
it is generally easy enough to find very good
reasons, or excuses at any rate, for it ; and when-
ever any doubts crossed Tom’s mind, he silenced
them by the reflection that the time he spent at
“ The Choughs ” would otherwise have been de-
voted to wine parties or billiards ; and it was

not difficult to persuade himself that his present
occupation was the more wholesome of the two.
He could not, however, feel satisfied till he had
mentioned his change in life to Hardy. This
he found a much more embarrassing matter than
he had fancied it would be. But, after one or
two false starts, he managed to get out that he
had found the best glass of ale in Oxford, at a
quiet little public on the way to the boats, kept
by the most perfect of widows, with a factotum
of an hostler, who was a regular character, and
that he went there most evenings for an hour or
so. Wouldn’t Hardy come some night ?

No, Hardy couldn’t spare the time.

Tom felt rather relieved at this answer ; but,
nevertheless, went on to urge the excellence of
the ale as a further inducement.

“ I don’t believe it’s half so good as our col-
lege beer, and I’ll be bound it’s half as dear
again.”

“ Only a penny a pint dearer,” said Tom ;
“that won’t ruin you — all the crew go there.”

“If I were the Captain,” said Hardy, “I
wouldn’t let you run about drinking ale at night
after wine parties. Does he know about it?”

“Yes, and goes there himself often on the
way from the boats,” said Tom.

“ And at night, too?” said Hardy.

“ No,” said Tom, “ but I don’t go there after
drinking wine ; I haven’t been to a wine these
ten days, at least not for more than five min-
utes.”

“Well, sound ale is better than Oxford wine,”
said Hardy, “ if you must drink something
and so the subject dropped.

And Tom went away satisfied that Hardy had
not disapproved of his new habit. It certainly
occurred to him that he had omitted all men-
tion of the pretty bar-maid in his enumeration
of the attractions of “ The Choughs,” but this
he set down to mere accident; it was a slip
which he would set right in their next talk.
But that talk never came, and the subject was
not again mentioned between them. In fact, to
tell the truth, Tom’s visits to his friend’s room
in the evenings became shorter and less frequent
as “The Choughs” absorbed more and more of
his time. He made excuses to himself that Har-
dy must be glad of more time, and would be only
bored if he kept dropping in every night, now
that the examination for degree was so near;
that he was sure he drove Grey away, who would
be of much more use to Hardy just now. These,
and many other equally plausible reasons, sug-
gested themselves whenever his conscience smote
him for his neglect, as it did not seldom. But
he always managed to satisfy himself somehow,
without admitting the real fact, that these visits
were no longer what they had been to him ; that
a gulf had sprung up, and was widening day by
day between him and the only friend who would
have had the courage and honesty to tell him
the truth about his new pursuit. Meantime
Hardy was much pained at the change in his
friend, which he saw quickly enough, and often
thought over it with a sigh as he sat at his soli-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

tary tea. He set it down to his own dullness,
to the number of new friends such a sociable fel-
low as Tom was sure to make, and who, of
course, would take up more and more of his
time ; and, if he felt a little jealousy every now
and then, put it resolutely back, struggling to
think no evil, or, if there were any, to lay it on
his own shoulders.

Cribbage is a most virtuous and respectable
game, and yet scarcely, one would think, pos-
sessing in itself sufficient attractions to keep a
young gentleman in his twentieth year tied to
the board, and going through the quaint calcu-
lation night after night of “ fifteen two, fifteen
four, two for his nob, and one for his heels.”
The old landlady of “ The Choughs ” liked noth-
ing so much as her game of ci'ibbage in the even-
ings, and the board lay ready on the little table
by her elbow in the cozy bar, a sure stepping-
stone to her good graces. Tom somehow be-
came an enthusiast in cribbage, and would al-
ways loiter behind his companions for his quiet
game: chatting pleasantly while the old lady
cut and shuffled the dirty pack, striving keenly
for the nightly stake of sixpence, which he sel-
dom failed to lose, and laughingly wrangling
with her over the last points in the game which
decided the transfer of the two sixpences (duly
posted in the snuffer-tray beside the cribbage-
board) into his waistcoat pocket or her bag, until
she would take off her spectacles to wipe them,
and sink back in her chair exhausted with the
pleasing excitement.

Such an odd taste as it seemed, too, a by-
stander might reasonably have thought, when
he might have been employing his time so much
more pleasantly in the very room. For, flitting
in and out of the bar during the game, and ev-
ery now and then stooping over the old lady’s
shoulder to examine her hand, and exchange
knowing looks with her, was the lithe little fig-
ure of Miss Patty, with her oval face, and mer-
ry eyes, and bright brown hair, and jaunty little
cap, with fresh blue ribbons of the shade of the
St. Ambrose colors. However, there is no ac-
counting for tastes, and it is fortunate that some
like apples and some onions. It may possibly
be, too, that Miss Patty did not feel herself neg-
lected, or did not care about attention. Per-
haps she may not have been altogether uncon-
scious that every least motion and word of hers
was noticed, even when the game was at its keen-
est. At any rate, it was clear enough that she
and Tom were on the best terms, though she al-
ways took her aunt’s part vehemently in any lit-
tle dispute which arose, and sometimes even
came to the rescue at the end, and recaptured
the vanished sixpences out of the wrongful grasp
which he generally laid on them the moment
the old lady held out her hand and pronounced
the word “game.” One knows that size has
little to do with strength, or one might have
wondered that her little hands should have been
able to open his fingers so surely one by one,
though he seemed to do all he could to keep
them shut. But, after all, if he really thought

he had a right to the money, he had always time
to put it in his pocket at once, instead of keep-
ing his clenched hand on the table, and arguing
about it till she had time to get up to the suc-
cor of her aunt.

CHAPTER XIII.

Tllli FIRST BUMP.

“ What’s the time, Smith ?”

“ Half past three, old fellow,” answered Di-
ogenes, looking at his watch.

“I never knew a day go so slowly,” said
Tom ; “isn’t it time to go down to the boats?”

“Not by two hours and more, old fellow —
can’t you take a book, or something to keep you
quiet? You won’t be fit for any thing by six
o’clock, if you go on worrying like this.” And
so Diogenes turned himself to his flute, and blew
away, to all appearances, as composedly as if it
had been the first week of term, though, if the
truth must be told, it was all he could do not to
get up and wander about in a feverish and dis-
tracted state, for Tom’s restlessness infected him.

Diogenes’s whole heart was in the college
boat ; and so, though he had pulled dozens of
races in his time, he was .almost as nervous as a
freshman on this the first day of the races.
Tom, all unconscious of the secret discomposure
of the other, threw himself into a chair and look-
ed at him with wonder and envy. The flute
went “ toot, toot, toot,” till he could stand it no
longer. So he got up and went to the window,
and, leaning out, looked up and down the street
for some minutes in a purposeless sort of fashion,
staring hard at every body and every thing, but
unconscious all the time that he was doing so.
He would not have been able, in fact, to answer
Diogenes a word, had that worthy inquired of
him what he had seen, when he presently drew
in his head and returned to his fidgety rumblings
.about the room.

“How hot the sun is! but there’s a stiff
breeze from the south-east. I hope it will go
down before the evening; don’t you?”

“ Yes ; this wind will make it very rough be-
low the Gut. Mind you feather high now at
starting.”

“I hope to goodness I shan’t catch a crab,”
said Tom.

“ Don’t think about it, old fellow ; that’s your
best plan.”

“But I can’t think of any thing else,” said
Tom. “What the deuce is the good of telling
a fellow not to think about it ?”

Diogenes apparently had nothing particular
to reply, for he put his flute to his mouth again ;
and at the sound of the “ toot, toot,” Tom caught
up his gown and fled away into the quadrangle.

The crew had had their early dinner of
steaks and chops, stale bread, and a glass and a
half of old beer apiece at two o’clock, in the
Captain’s rooms. The current theory of train-
ing at that time was — as much meat us you
could eat, the more underdone the better, and

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

the smallest amount of drink upon which you
could manage to live. Two pints in the twen-
ty-four hours was all that most boats’ crews that
pretended to train at all were allowed, and for
the last fortnight it had been the nominal allow-
ance of the St. Ambrose crew. The discom-
fort of such a diet in the hot summer months,
when you were at the same time taking regular
and violent exercise, was something very seri-
ous. Outraged human nature rebelled against
it ; and though they did not admit it in public,
there were very few men who did not rush to
their water-bottles for relief, more or less often,
according to the development of their bumps of
conscientiousness and obstinacy. To keep the
diet at all strictly involved a very respectable
amount of physical endurance. Our successors
have found out the unwisdom of this, as of oth-
er old superstitions'^ and that in order to get a
man into training for a boat-race nowadays, it
is not of the first importance to keep him in a
constant state of consuming thirst, and the rest-
lessness of body and sharpness of temper which
thirst generally induces.

Tom appreciated the honor of being in the
boat in his first year so keenly, that he had al-
most managed to keep to his training allowance,
and consequently, now that the eventful day
had arrived, was in a most uncomfortable frame
of body and disagreeable frame of mind.

He fled away from Diogenes’s flute, but found
no rest. He tried Drysdale. That hero was
lying on his back on his sofa playing with Jack,
and only increased Tom’s thirst and soured his
temper by the viciousness of his remarks on
boating, and every thing and person connected
therewith ; above all, on Miller, who had just
come up, had steered them the day before, and
pronounced the crew generally, and Drysdale in
particular, “ not half trained.”

Blake’s oak was sported, as usual. Tom
looked in at the Captain’s door, and found him
hard at work reading, and so carried himself
off ; and after a vain hunt after others of the
crew, and even trying to sit down and read,
first a novel, then a play of Shakspeare, with no
success whatever, wandered away out of the col-
lege, and found himself in five minutes, by a
natural and irresistible attraction, on the univer-
sity barge.

There 'were half a dozen men or so reading
the papers, and a group or two discussing the
coming races. Among other things, the chances
of St. Ambrose’s making a bump the first night
were weighed. Every one joined in praising
the stroke, but there were great doubts whether
the crew could live up to it. Tom carried him-
self on to the top of the barge to get out of hear-
ing, for listening made his heart beat and his
throat drier than ever. He stood on the top
and looked right away down to the Gut, the
strong wind blowing his gown about. Not even
a pair oar was to be seen ; the great event of the
evening made the river a solitude at this time
of day. Only one or two skilfs were coming
home, impelled by reading men who took their

constitutionals on the water, and were coming
in to be in time for afternoon chapel. The
fastest and best of these soon came near enough
for Tom to recognize Hardy’s stroke ; so he left
the barge and went down to meet the servitor at
his landing, and accompanied him to the St.
Ambrose dressing-room.

“Well, how do you feel for the race to-
night ?” said Hardy, as he dried his neck and
face, which he had been sluicing with cold wa-
ter, looking as hard and bright as a racer on
Derby day.

“ Oh, wretched ! I’m afraid I shall break
down,” said Tom, and poured out some of his
doubts and miseries. Hardy soon comforted
him greatly, and by the time they were half
across Christchurch meadow he W'as quite in
heart again. For he knew how well Hardy un-
derstood rowing, and what a sound judge he
was ; and it was therefore cheering to hear that
he thought they were certainly the second best,
if not the best boat on the river ; and that they
would be sure to make some bumps unless they
had accidents.

“But that’s just what I fear so,” said Tom.
“ I’m afraid I shall make some awful blunder.”
“Not you !” said Hardy ; “ only remember.
Don’t you fancy you can pull the boat by your-
self, and go trying to do it. That’s where
young oars fail. If you keep thorough good
time you’ll be pretty sure to be doing your
share of work. Time is every thing almost.”
“I’ll be sure to think of that,” said Tom;
and they entered St. Ambrose just as the chap-
el bell was going down ; and he went to chap-
el and then to hall, sitting by and talking for
companionship while the rest dined.

And so at last the time slipped away, and the
Captain and Miller mustered them at the gates
and walked off to the boats. A dozen other
crews were making their way in the same di-
rection, and half the under-graduates of Oxford
streamed along with them. The banks of the
river were crowded ; and the punts plied rapid-
ly backward and forward, carrying loads of
men over to the Berkshire side. The universi-
ty barge, and all the other barges, were decked
with flags, and the band tvas playing lively airs
as the St. Ambrose crew reached the scene of
action.

No time was lost in the dressing-room, and
in two minutes they Avere all standing in flan-
nel troAvsers and silk jerseys at the landing-
place.

“You had better keep your jackets on,” said
the Captain ; “ we shan’t be off yet.”

“There goes ‘Brazen-nose.’”

“They look like Avork, don’t they?”

“The black and yelloAV seems to slip along
so fast. They’re no end of good colors. I
Avish our ncAv boat Avas black.”

‘ ‘ Hang her colors, if she’s only stiff" in the
back and don’t dip.”

“ \Yell, she didn’t dip yesterday ; at least, the
men on the bank said so.”

“There go Baliol, and Oriel, and UniA-ersity.”

TOM BROWN

“By Jove, we shall be late! Where’s Mil-
ler ?”

“In the shed, getting the boat out. Look,
here’s Exeter.”

The talk of the crew was silenced for the mo-
ment as every man looked eagerly at the Exeter
boat. The Captain nodded to Jervis with a
grim smile as they paddled gently by.

Then the talk began again.

“How do you think she goes?”

“Not so badly. They’re very strong in the
middle of the boat.”

“Not a bit of it : it’s all lumber.”

“You’ll see. They’re better trained than
we are. They look as fine as stars.”

‘ ‘ So they ought. They’ve pulled seven miles
to our five for the last month. I’m sure.”

“ Then we shan’t bump them.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you know that the value of products
consists in the quantity of labor which goes
to produce them? Product pace over course
from Itfley up. Labor expended — Exeter, 7 ;
St. Ambrose, 5. You see it is not in the na-
ture of things that we should bump them —
Q.E.D.”

“What moonshine! as if ten miles behind
their stroke are worth two behind Jervis !”

“ My de'ar fellow, it isn’t my moonshine ; you
must settle the matter with the philosophers.
I only apply a universal law to a particular
case.”

Tom, unconscious of the pearls of economic
lore which were being poured out for the bene-
fit of tlie crew, was watching the Exeter eight
as it glided away towards the Cherwell. He
thought they seemed to keep horribly good
time.

“ Hallo, Drysdale ! look, there’s Jack going
across in one of the punts.”

“Of course he is. You don’t suppose he
wouldn’t go down to see the race.”

“ Why won’t Miller let us start ? Almost
all the boats are off.”

“There’s plenty of time. We may just as
well be up here as dawdling about the bank at
Mey.”

“We shan’t go down tiil the last; Miller
never lets us get out down below.”

“ Well, come ; here’s the boat at last.”

The new boat now emerged from its shed,
guided steadily to where they were standing by
Miller and a waterman. 'Then the coxswain
got out and called for bow, who stepped for-
ward.

“Mind how you step now ; there are no bot-
tom boards, remember,” said Miller.

“ Shall I take my jacket ?”

“Yes ; you had better all go down in jackets
in this wind. I’ve sent a man down to bring
them back. Now, two.”

“Aye, aye!” said Drysdale, stepping for-
ward. Then came Tom’s turn, and soon the
boat was manned.

“Now,” said Miller, taking his place, “are
all your stretchers right ?”

AT OXFORD. . 71

“I should like a little more grease for my
rowlocks.”

“I’m taking some down; we’ll put it on
down below. Are you all right?”

“Yes.”-

“Then push her off — gently.”

The St. Ambrose boat was almost tlie last, so
there were no punts in the way, or other ob-
structions ; and they swung steadily down past
the university barge, the top of which was al-
ready covered with spectators. Every man in
the boat felt as if the eyes of Europe were on
•him, and pulled in his very best form. Small
groups of gownsmen were scattered along the
bank in Christchurch meadow, chiefly dons,
who were really interested in the races, but at
that time of day, seldom liked to display enthu-
siasm enough to cross the water and go down to
the starting-place. These sombre groups were
lighted up here and there by the dresses of a
few ladies, who were walking up and down, and
watching the boats. At the mouth of the
Cherwell were moored two punts, in which re-
clined at their ease some dozen young gentle-
men, smoking ; several of these were friends of
Drysdale’s, and hailed him as the boat passed
them.

“ What a fool I am to be here !” he grum-
bled, in an under-tone, casting an envious
glance at the punts in their comfortable berth
up under the banks, and out of the wind.

“ I say. Brown, don’t you wish we wei'e well
past this on the way up ?”

“ Silence in the bows !” shouted Miller.

“ You devil, how I hate you !” growled
Drysdale, half in jest and half in earnest, as
they sped along under the willows.

Tom got more comfortable at every stroke,
and by the time they reached the Gut began to
hope that he should not have a fit, or lose all
his strength just at the start, or cut a crab, or
come to some other unutterable grief, the fear
of which had been haunting him all day.

“ Here they are at last ! — come along now —
keep up with them,” said Hardy to Grey, as
the boat neared the Gut ; and the two trotted
along downward. Hardy watching the crew,
and Grey watching him.

“ Hardy, how eager you look !”

“I’d give twenty pounds to be going to pull
in the race.”

Grey shambled on in silence by the side of
his big friend, and wished he could understand
what it was that moved him so.

As the boat shot into the Gut from under
the cover of the Oxfordshire bank, the wind
caught the bows.

“ Feather high, now!” shouted Miller; and
then added in a low voice to the Captain, “It
will be ticklish work starting in this wind.”

“Just as bad for all the other boats,” an-
swered the Captain.

“Well said, old philosopher!” said Miller.
“ It’s a comfort to steer you ; you never make
a fellow neiwous. I wonder if you ever felt
nervous yourself, now?”

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED.

“Can’t say,” said the Captain, “Here’s
our post ; we may as well turn.”

“Easy, bow side — now, two and four, pull
her round — back water, seven and five!”
shouted the coxswain ; and the boat’s head
swung round, and two or three strokes took
her into the bank.

Jack instantly made a convulsive attempt to
board, but was sternly repulsed, and tumbled
backward into the water.

Hark ! the first gun. The report sent Tom’s
heart into his mouth again. Several of the
boats pushed oft’ at once into the stream ; and
the crowds of men on the bank began to be
agitated, as it were, by the shadow of the com-
ing excitement. The St. Ambrose crew finger-
ed their oars, put a last dash of grease on
their rowlocks, and settled their feet against
the stretchers,

“ Shall we push her off?” asked “bow.”

“No, I can give you another minute,” said
Miller, who was sitting, w'atch in hand, in the
stern, “only be smart when I give the word.”

The Captain turned on his seat and looked
up the boat. His face was quiet, but full of
confidence, which seemed to pass from him into
the crew. Tom felt calmer and stronger as
he met his eye. “Now mind, boys, don’t
quicken,” he said, cheerily ; “four short strokes
to get way on her, and then steady. Here,
pass up the lemon.”

And he took a sliced lemon out of his pock-
et, put a small piece into his own mouth, and
then handed it to Blake, who followed his ex-
ample, and passed it on. Each man took a
piece; and just as “bow” had secured the
end. Miller called out :

“Now, jackets off, and get her head out
steadily.”

The jackets were thrown on shore, and gath-
ered up by the boatmen in attendance. The
crew poised their oars. No. 2 pushing out her
head, and the Captain doing the same for the
stern. Miller took the starting-rope in his
hand.

“How the wind catches her stern,” he said ;
“ here, pay out the rope, one of you. No,
not you — some fellow with a strong hand.
Yes, you’ll do,” he went on, as Hardy stepped
down the bank and took hold of the rope;
“ let me have it foot by foot as I want it. Not
too quick ; make the most of it — that’ll do'.
Two and three just dip your oars in to give her
way. ”

The rope paid out steadily, and the boat
settled to her place. But now the wind rose
again, and the stern drifted towards the bank.

“ You must back her a bit. Miller, and keep
her a little farther out, or our oars on stroke
side will catch the bank.”

“So I see; curse the wind! Back her,
one stroke all. Back her, I say !” shouted Mil-
ler.

It is no easy matter to get a crew to back
her an inch just now, particularly as there are
in her two men who have never rowed a race

before, except in the torpids, and one who has
never rowed a race in his life.

However, back she comes ; the starting-rope
slackens in Miller’s left hand, and the stroke,
unshipping his oar, pushes the stern gently out
again.

There goes the second gun ! one short min-
ute more, and we are off. Short minute, in-
deed ! you wouldn’t say so if you were in the
boat, with your heart in your mouth, and trem-
bling all over like a man with the palsy. Those
sixty seconds before the starting-gun in your
first race — why, they are a little lifetime.

“By Jove, we are drifting in again!” said
Miller, in horror. The Captain looked grim,
but said nothing ; it was too late now for him
to be unshipping again. “Here, catch hold
of the long boat-hook and fend her off!”

Hardy, to whom this was addressed, seized
the boat-hook, and, standing with one foot in
the water, pressed the end of the boat-hook
against the gunwale at the full stretch of his
arm, and so, by main force, kept the stern out.
There wasjust room for stroke-oars to dip, and
that was all. The starting-rope was as taut as
a harp-string ; Avill Miller’s left hand hold out ?

It is an awful moment. But the coxswain,
though almost dragged backward off his seat, is
equal to the occasion. He holds his watch in
his right hand with the tiller-rope.

“Eight seconds more only. Look out for
the flash. Eemember, all eyes in the boat!”

There it comes at last — the flash of the start-
ing-gun. Long before the sound of the report
can roll up the river, the whole pent-up life and
energy which has been held in leash, as it were,
for the last six minutes, is let loose, and breaks
away with a bound and a dash which he who
has felt it will remember for his life, but the
like of which will he ever feel again ? The
starting-ropes drop from the coxswains’ hands,
the oars flash into the water and gleam on the
feather, the spray flies from them, and the boats
leap forward.

The crowds on the bank scatter, and rush
along, each keeping as near as it may be to its
own boat. Some of the men on the towing-path,
some on the very odge of, often in, the water —
.some slightly in advance, as if they could help
to drag their boat forward — some behind, where
they can see the pulling better — but all at full
speed, in wild excitement, and shouting at the
top of their A'oices to those on whom the honor
of the college is laid.

“Well pulled, all !” “Pick her up there,
five!” “ You’re gaining every stroke !” “Time
in the bows !” “ Bravo, St. Ambrose!”

On they rushed by the side of the boats, jos-
tling one another, stumbling, struggling, and
panting along.

For a quarter of a mile along the bank the
glorious maddening hury-buvly extends, and rolls
up the side of the stream.

For the first ten strokes Tom was in too great
fear of making a mistake to feel, or hear, or see.
His whole soul was glued to the back of the man

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

before him, his one thought to keep time, and
get his strength into the stroke. But as the
crew settled down into the well-known long
sweep, what we may call consciousness returned ;
and while every muscle in his body was strain-
ing, and his chest heaved, and his heart leaped,
every nerve seemed to be gathering new life,

boat behind, which seemed to be gaining — it
was all he could do to prevent himself from
quickening on the stroke as he fancied that —
the eager face of Miller, with his compressed
lips, and eyes fixed so earnestly ahead that Tom
could almost feel the glance passing over his
right shoulder ; the Hying banks and the shout-

and his senses to wake into unwonted acuteness.
He caught the scent of the wild thyme in the
air, and found room in his brain to wonder how
it could have got there, as he had never seen the
plant near the river, or smelt it before. Though
his eye never wandered from the back of Diog-
enes, he seemed to see all things at once. The

ing crowd; see them with his bodily eyes he
could not, but he knew, nevertheless, that Gray
had been upset and nearly rolled down the bank
into the water in the first hundred yards, that
Jack was bounding and scrambling and barking
along by the very edge of the stream ; above all,
he was just as well aware as if he had been look-

■74

TOM BEOWN AT OXTOED.

ing at it, of a stalwart form in cap and go'wn,
bounding along, brandishing the long boat-hook,
and always keeping just opposite the boat; and
amidst all the Babel of voices, and the dash and
pulse of the stroke, and the laboring of his own
breathing, he heard Hardy’s voice coming to
him again and again, and clear as if there had
been no other sound in the air, “Steady, two !
steady ! well pulled ! steady, steady !” The
voice seemed to give him strength and keep him
to his work. And what work it was ! he had
had many a hard pull in the last six weeks, but
“ never aught like this.”

But it can’t last forever ; men’s muscles are
not steel, or their lungs bull’s hide, and hearts
can’t go on pumping a hundred miles an horn-
long without bursting. The St. Ambrose boat
is well away from the boat behind, there is a
great gap between the accompanying crowds ;
and now, as they near the Gut, she hangs for a
moment or two in hand, though the roar from
the bank grows louder and louder, and Tom is
already aware that the St. Ambrose crowd is
melting into the one ahead of them.

“We must be close to Exeter !” The thought
flashes into him, and, it would seem, into the
rest of the crew at the same moment. For, all
at once, the strain seems taken off their arms
again ; there is no more drag ; she springs to
the stroke as she did at the start ; and Miller’s
face, which had darkened for a few seconds,
lightens up again.

Miller’s face and attitude are a study. Coil-
ed up into the smallest possible space, his chin
almost resting on his knees, his hands close to
his sides, firmly but lightly feeling the rudder,
as a good horseman handles the mouth of a
free-going hunter — if a coxswain could make a
bump by his own exertions, surely he will do it.
No sudden jerks of the St. Ambrose rudder will
you see, watch as you will from the bank ; the
boat never hangs through fault of his, but easily
and gracefully rounds every point. “You’re
gaining! you’re gaining!” he now and then
mutters to the Captain, who responds with a
wink, keeping his breath for other matters.
Isn’t he grand, the Captain, as he comes forward
like lightning, stroke after stroke, his back flat,
his teeth set, his whole frame working from the
hips with the regularity of a machine ? As the
space still narrows, the eyes of the fiery little
coxswain flash with excitement, but he is far too
good a judge to hurry the final effort before the
victory is safe in his grasp.

The two crowds are mingled now, and no mis-
take ; and the shouts come all in a heap over
the water. “Now, St. Ambrose, six strokes
more.” “Now, Exeter, you’re gaining; pick
her up.” “ Mind the Gut, Exeter.” “Bravo,
St. Ambrose !” The water rushes by, still ed-
dying from the strokes of the boat ahead. Tom
fancies now he can hear their oars and the work-
ings of their rudder, and the voice of their cox-
swain. In another moment both boats are in
the Gut, and a perfect storm of shouts reaches
them from the crowd as it rushes madly off to

the left to the foot-bridge, amidst which “ Oh,
well steered, well steered, St. Ambrose !” is the
prevailing cry. Then Miller, motionless as a
statue till now, lifts his right hand and whirls
the tassel round his head : “ Give it her now,
boys ! six strokes and we are into them !” Old
Jervis lays down that great broad back, and
lashes his oar through the water with the might
of a giant, the crew catch him up in another
stroke, the tight new boat answers to the spurt,
and Tom feels a little shock behind him and
then a grating sound, as Miller shouts, “Un-
ship oars, bow and three,” and the nose of the
St. Ambrose boat glides quietly up the side of
the Exeter till it touches their stroke-oar.

“ Take care where you’re coming to.” It is
the coxswain of the bumped boat who speaks.

Tom, looking round, finds himself within a
foot or two of him ; and, being utterly unable
to contain his joy, and yet unwilling to exhibit
it before the eyes of a gallant rival, turns away
towards the shore and begins telegraphing to
Hardy.

“Now then, what are you at there in the
bows ? Cast her off quick. Come, look alive !
Push across at once out of the way of the oth-
er boats.”

“ I congratulate you, Jervis,” says the Exe-
ter stroke, as the St. Ambrose boat shoots past
him. “Do it again next race, and I shan’t
care.”

“We were within three lengths of Brazen-
nose when we bumped,” says the all-observant
Miller in a low voice.

“All right,” answers the Captain ; “Brazen-
nose isn’t so strong as usual. We shan’t have
much trouble there, but a tough job up above, I
take it.”

“ Brazen-nose was better steered than Exe-
ter.”

“They muffed it in the Gut, eh?” said the
Captain. “I thought so by the shouts.”

“ Yes, we were pressing them a little down
below, and their coxswain kept looking over
his shoulder. He was in the Gut before he
knew it, and had to pull his left hand hard, or
they would have fouled the Oxfordshire corner.
That stopped their way, and in we went.”

“Bravo! and how well we started, too.”

“Yes, thanks to that Hardy. It was touch
and go, though ; I couldn’t have held the rope
two seconds more.”

“ How did our fellows work ? she dragged a
good deal below the Gut.”

Miller looks somewhat serious, but even he
can not be finding fault just now ; for the first
step is gained, the first victory won ; and, as
Homer sometimes nods, so Miller relaxes the
sternness of his rule. The crew, as soon as
they have found their voices again, laugh and
talk, and answer the congratulations of their
friends as the boat slips along close to the tow-
ing-path on the Berks side, “ easy all,” almost
keeping pace, nevertheless, with the lower boats,
which are racing up rmder the willow-s on the
Oxfordshire side. Jack, after one.or two feints,

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

makes a frantic bound into the water, and is
hauled, dripping, into the boat by Drysdale, un-
chid by Miller, but to the intense disgust of
Diogenes, whose pantaloons and principles are
alike outraged by the proceeding. He — the
Cato of the oar — scorns to relax the strictness
of his code even after victory won. Neither
word nor look does he cast to the exulting St.
Ambrosians on the bank ; a twinkle in his eye,
and a subdued chuckle or two, alone betray that,
though an oarsman, he is mortal. Already he
revolves in his mind the project of an early walk
under a few pea-coats, not being quite satisfied
(conscientious old boy !) that he tried his stretch-
er enough in that final spurt, and thinking that
there must be an extra pound of flesh on him
somewhere or other which did the mischief.

“ I say. Brown,” said Drysdale, “ how do you
feel?”

“ All right,” said Tom ; “I never felt jollier
in my life.”

“By Jove, though, it was an awful grind;
didn’t you wish yourself well out of it below the
Gut?”

“No, nor you either.”

“Didn’t I? I w'as awfully baked; my
throat is like a lime-kiln yet. What did you
think about ?”

“W^ell, about keeping time, I think,” said
Tom, laughing ; “ but I can’t remember much.”

“I only kept on by thinking how I hated
those devils in the Exeter boat, and how done
up they must be, and hoping their No. 2 felt
like having a fit.”

At this moment they came opposite the Cher-
well. The leading boat was just passing the
winning-post, off the university barge, and the
band struck up the “Conquering Hero,” with
a crash. And while a mighty sound of shouts,
murmui-s, and music went up into the evening
sky. Miller shook the tiller-ropes again, the
Captain shouted, “Now then, pick her up,”
and the St. Ambrose boat shot up between the
swarming banks at racing pace to her landing-
place, the lion of the evening.

Dear readers of the gentler sex ! you, I know,
will pardon the enthusiasm which stirs our
pulses, now in sober middle age, as we call up
again the memories of this the most exciting
sport of our boyhood (for we were but boys
then, after all). You will pardon, though I fear
hopelessly unable to understand, the above
sketch ; your sons and brothers will tell you it
could not have been made less technical.

For you, male readers, who have never han-
dled an oar — what shall I say to you ? You at
least, I hope, in some way — in other contests of
one kind or an other — have felt as we felt, and
have striven as we strove. You ought to un-
derstand and sympathize with us in all our
boating memories. Oh, how fresh and sweet
they are ! Above all, that one of the gay little
Henley town, the carriage-crowded bridge, the
Hoble river reach, the giant poplars, which mark
the critical point of the course — the roaring col-
umn of “ under-grads,” light blue and dark pur-

ple, Cantab and Oxonian, alike and yet how
different — hurling along together, and hiding
the towing-path — the clang of Henley church-
bells — the cheering, the waving of embroidered
handkerchiefs, and glancing of bright eyes, the
ill-concealed pride of fathers, the open delight
and exultation of mothers and sisters — the
levee in the town-hall when the race was rowed,
the great cup full of Champagne (inn-Cham-
pagne, but we were not critical) — the chops,
the steaks, the bitter-beer — but we run into
anti-climax — remember, w'C "were boys then,
and bear with us if you can not sympathize.

And you, old companions, Opavirai, benchers
(of the gallant eight-oar), now seldom met, but
never-forgotten, lairds, squires, soldiers, mer-
chants, lawyers, grave J.P.’s, graver clergymen,
gravest bishops (for of two bishops at least does
our brotherhood boast), I turn for a moment
from my task, to reach to you the right hand of
fellowship from these pages, and empty the
solemn pewter— trophy of hard-won victory— to
your health and happiness.

Surely none the worse Christians and citizens
are ye for your involuntary failing of muscu-
larity !

CHAPTER XIV.

A CHANGE IN THE CREW, AND WHAT CAME
OF IT.

It was on a Saturday that the St. Ambrose
boat made the first bump, described in our last
chapter. On the next Saturday, the day-week
after the first success, at nine o’clock in the
evening, our hero was at the door of Hardy’s
rooms. He just stopped for one moment outside,
with his hand on the lock, looking a little puz-
zled, but withal pleased, and then opened the
door and entered. The little estrangement
which there had been between them for some
weeks had passed away since the races had be-
gun. Hardy had thrown himself into the spirit
of them so thoroughly, that he had not only re-
gained all his hold on Tom, but had warmed
up the whole crew in his favor, and had molli-
fied the martinet Miller himself. It was he
who had managed the starting-rope in every
race, and his voice from the towing-path had
come to be looked upon as a safe guide for clap-
ping on or rowing steady. Even Miller, auto-
crat as he was, had come to listen for it, in con-
firmation of his own judgment, before calling
on the crew for tlie final efibrt.

So Tom had recovered his old footing in the
servitor’s rooms ; and when he entered on the
night in question, did so with the bearing of an
intimate friend. Hardy’s tea commons were
on one end of the table, as usual, and he was
sitting at the other poring over a book. Tom
marched straight up to him and leaned over
his shoulder.

“What! here you are at the perpetual grind,”
he said. “Come, shut up, and give me soma
tea ; I want to talk to you.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

Hardy looked up with a grim smile.

“Are you up to a cup of tea?” he said;
“look here, I was just reminded of you fellows.
Shall I construe for you ?”

He pointed with his finger to the open page
of the book he was reading. It was the Knights
of Aristophanes, and Tom, leaning over his
shoulder, read :

K^ra Katil^ov juaXaKtor I'l/a fi')] Tpl/3rji t//i/ ev ^aXa/Jitvi, etc.

After meditating a moment he burst out,
“You hard-hearted old ruffian! I come here
for sympathy, and the first thing you do is to
poke fun at me out of your wretched classics.
I’ve a good mind to clear out, and not do my
errand.”

“What’s a man to do?” said Hardy. “I
hold that it’s always better to laugh at fortune.
What’s the use of repining ? You have done
famously, and second is a capital place on the
river.”

‘‘Second be hanged!” said Tom. “We
mean to be first.”

“ Well, I hope we may !” said Hardy. “ I
can tell you nobody felt it more than I — not
even old Diogenes — when you didn’t make your
bump to-night.”

“ Now you talk like a man, and a Saint Am-
brosian,” said Tom. “ But what do you think?
Shall we ever catch them?” and, so saying, he
retired to a chair opposite the tea-things.

“No,” said Hardy ; “I don’t think we ever
shall. I’m very sorry to say it, but they are an
uncommonly strong lot, and we have a weak
place or two in our crew. I doti’t think W'e can
do more than we did to-night — at least with
the present crew.”

“But if we could get a little more strength
we might?”

“Yes, I think so. Jervis’s stroke is worth
two of theirs. A very little more powder would
do it.”

“ Then we must have a little more pow-
der.”

“ Aye, but how are Ave to get it ? Who can
you put in ?”

“You!” said Tom, sitting up. “There,
now, that’s just what I am come about. Drys-
dale is to go out. Will you pull next race ?
They all want you to row.”

“Do they?” said Hardy, quietly (but Tom
could see that his eye sparkled at the notion,
though he was too proud to show how much he
was pleased) ; “ then they had better come and
ask me themselves.”

“Well, you cantankerous old party, they’re
coming, I can tell you!” said Tom, in great
delight. “The Captain just sent me on to
break ground, and will be here directly himself.
I say now. Hardy,” he went on, “ don’t y6u say
no. I’ve set my heart upon it. I’m sure we
shall bump them if you pull.”

“I don’t know that,” said Hardy, getting up,
and beginning to make tea, to conceal the ex-
citement he Avas in at the idea of roAving;
“3'ou sec I’m not in training.”

“Gammon!” said Tom, “you’re always in
training, and you knoAV it.”

“Well,” said Hardy, “I can’t be in worse
than Drysdale. He has been of no use aboA'C
the Gut this last three nights.”

“That’s just what Miller says,” said Tom;
“and here comes the Captain.” There was a
knock at the door while he spoke, and Jervis
and Miller entered.

Tom was in a dreadful fidget for the next
tAventy minutes, and may best be compared to
an enthusiastic envoy negotiating a treaty, and
suddenly finding his action impeded by the arri-
val of his principals. Miller was A'ery civil, but
not pressing; he seemed to have come more
with a view of talking over the present state of
things, and consulting upon them,, than of en-
listing a recruit. Hardy met him more than
half-Avay, and speculated on all sorts of possible
issues, without a hint of volunteering himself.
But presently Jervis, who did not understand
finessing, bi-oke in, and asked Hardy, point
blank, to pull in the next race ; and Avhen he
pleaded Avant of training, overruled him at once
by saying that there was no better training than
sculling. So in half an hour all was settled.
Hardy was to pull fiA^e in the next race, Diog-
enes Avas to take Blake’s place at No. 7, and
Blake to take Drysdale’s oar at No. 2. The
Avhole crew were to go for a long training walk
the next day, Sunday, in the afternoon ; to go
dowm to Abingdon on Monday, just to get into
swing in their new places, and then on Tuesday
to abide the fate of Avar. They had half an
hour’s pleasant talk over Hardy’s tea, and then
separated.

“I alAvays told you he Avas our man,” said
the Captain to Miller, as they Avalked together
to the gates ; “we Avant strength, and he is as
strong as a horse. You must haA^e seen him
sculling yourself. There isn’t his match on the
river, to my mind.”

“ Yes, I think he’ll do,” replied Miller ; “at
any rate, he can’t be Avorse than Drysdale.”

As for Tom and Hardy, it may safely be said
that no tAvo men in Oxford went to bed in bet-
ter spirits that Saturday night than they tAvo.

And noAv to explain how it came about that
Hardy was AA’anted. Fortune had smiled upon
the St. Ambrosians in the two races Avhich suc-
ceeded the one in Avhich they had bumped Exe-
ter. They had risen two more places AA'ithout
any very great trouble. Of course, the constit-
uencies on the bank magnified their poAvers and
doings. There never was such a creAV, they
Avere quite safe to be head of the river, nothing
could live against their pace. So the young
oars in the boat swallowed all they heard,
thought themselves the finest felloAvs going, took
less and less pains to keep up their condition,
and, when they got out of ear-shot of Jervis and
Diogenes, were ready to bet two to one that they
would bump Oriel the next night, and keep easi-
ly head of the river for the rest of the races.

Saturday night came, and brought with it a
most useful though unpalatable lesson to the

TOM BKOWN AT OXPORD.

St. Ambrosians. The Oriel boat was manned
chiefly by old oars seasoned in many a race,
and not liable to panic when hard pressed. Tliey
had a fair though not a flrst-ratc stroke, and a
good coxswain ; experts remarked that they
ivere rather too heavy for their boat, and tliat
3he dipped a little when they put on any thing
like a severe spurt; but, on the whole, they
'were by no means the sort of crew you could
just run into hand over hand. So Miller and
Diogenes preached, and so the Arnbrosians
found out to their cost.

They had the pace of the other boat, and
gained as usual a boat’s length before the Gut ;
but first those two fatal corners were passed,
and then other well-remembered spots where
former bumps had been made, and still Miller
made no sign ; on the contrary, he looked
gloomy and savage. The St. Ambrosian shouts
from the shore, too, changed from the usual ex-
ultant peals into something like a quaver of
consternation, while the air was rent with the
name and laudations of “little Oriel.”

Long before the Chevwell Drysdale was com-
pletely baked (he had played truant the day be-
fore and dined at the Weirs, where he had im-
bibed much dubious hock), but he from old nab-
it managed to keep time. Tom and the other
young oars got flurried, and quickened ; the
boat dragged, there was no life left in her, and,
though they managed just to hold their first ad-
vantage, could not put her a foot nearer the
stern of the Oriel boat, which glided past the
winning-post a clear boat’s length ahead of her
pursuers, and with a crew much less distressed.

Such races must tell on strokes ; and even
Jervis, who had pulled magnificently through-
out, was very much done at the close, and lean-
ed over his oar with a swimming in his head
and ?.n approach to faintness, and was scarcely
able to see for a minute or so. Miller’s indig-
nation knew no bounds, but he bottled it up till
he had manoeuvred the crew into their dressing-
room by themselves, Jervis having stopped be-
low. Then he let out, and did not spare them.
“ They would kill their captain, whose little fin-
ger was worth the whole of them ; they were
disgracing the college ; three or four of them
had neither heart, head, nor pluck.” They all
felt that this was unjust ; for, after all, had they
not brought the boat up to the second place ?
Poor Diogenes sat in a corner and groaned ; he
forgot to prefix “ old fellow ” to the few obser-
vations he made. Blake had great difficulty in
adjusting his neck-tie before the glass; he
merely remarked in a pause of the objurgation,
“ In faith, coxswain, these be very bitter words.”
Tom and most of the others were too much out
of heart to resist ; but at last Drysdale fired
up:

“You’ve no right to be so savage, that I can
see,” he said, suddenly stopping the low whistle
in which he was indulging, as he sat on thp
corner of the table ; “ you seem to think No. 2
the weakest out of several weak places in the
boat.”

“ Yes, I do,” said Miller.

“Then this honorable member,” said Drys-
dale, getting off the table, “seeing that his hum-
ble efforts arc unappreciated, thinks it best for
the public service to place his resignation in the
hands of your coxswainship.”

“Which my coxswainship is graciously
pleased to accept,” replied Miller.

“ Hurrah for a roomy punt and a soft cushion
next racing night! — it’s almost worth while to
have been rowing all this time, to realize the
sensations I shall feel when I see you fellows
passing the Cherwell on Tuesday.”

Suave est, it’s what I’m partial to, ma7i
magno, in the last reach, a ten-a, from the tow-
ing-path, alterius viagnum spectare lahoreu}, to
witness the tortures of you wretched beggars in
the boat. I’m obliged to translate for Drysdale,
who never learned Latin,” said Blake, finishing
his tie before the glass. There was an awk-
ward silence. Miller was chafing inwardly,
and running over in his mind what was to be
done ; and nobody else seemed quite to know
what ought to happen next, when the door open-
ed and Jervis came in.

“ Congratulate me, my Captain,” said Drys-
dale ; “I’m well out of it at last.”

J ervis ‘ ‘ pished and pshawed ” a little at hear-
ing what had haj^pened, but his presence acted
like oil on the waters. The moment that the
resignation was named, Tom’s thoughts had
turned to Hardy. Now was the time — he had
such confidence in the man, that the idea of get-
ting him in for next race entirely changed the
aspect of affairs to him, and made him feel as
“ bumptious ” again as he had done in the morn-
ing. So, with this idea in his head, he hung
about till the Captain had made his toilet, and
joined himself to him and Miller as they walk-
ed up.

“Well, what are we to do now?” said the
Captain.

“ That’s just what you have to settle,” said
Miller; “you have been up all the term, and
know the men’s pulling. better than I.”

“I suppose we must press somebody from the
torpid — let me see, there’s Burton.”

“He rolls like a porpoise,” interrupted Mil-
ler, positively ; “ impossible.”

“ Stewart might do, then.”

“Never kept time for three strokes in his
life,” said Miller.

“Well, there are no better men,” said the
Captain.

“ Then we may lay our account to stopping
where we are, if we don’t even lose a place,”
said Miller.

“ Dust unto dust, what must be, must ;

If you can’t get crumb, you’d best eat crust,”

said the Captain.

“ It’s all very well talking coolly now,” said
Miller ; “ but you’ll kill yourself trying to bump,
and there are three more nights.”

“Hardy would row if you asked him. I’m
sure,” said Tom.

The Captain looked at Miller, who shook his

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

head. “ I don’t think it,” he said ; “ I take him
to be a shy bird that won’t come to every body’s
whistle. We might have had him two years
ago, I believe — I wish we had.”

“ I always told you so,” said Jervis ; “ at any
rate, let’s try him. He can but say no, and I
don’t think he will, for you see he has been at
the starting-place every night, and as keen as a
freshman all the time.”

“I’m sure he won’t,” said Tom ; “ I know he
would give any thing to pull.”

“ You had better go to his rooms and sound
him,” said the Captain ; “ Miller and I will fol-
low in half an hour.” We have already heard
how Tom’s mission prospered.

The next day, at a few minutes before two
o’clock, the St. Ambrose crew, including Hardy,
with Miller (who was a desperate and indefati-
gable pedestrian) for leader, crossed Magdalen
Bridge. At five they returned to college, hav-
ing done a little over fifteen miles, fair heel and
toe walking, in the interval. The afternoon had
been very hot, and Miller chuckled to the Cap-
tain, “I don’t think there will be much trash
left in any one of them after that. That fellow
Hardy is as fine as a race-horse, and, did you
see, he never turned a hair all the way.”

The crew' dispersed to their rooms, delighted
with the performance, now that it was over, and
feeling that they were much the better for it,
though they all declared it had been harder work
than any race they had yet pulled. It would
have done a trainer’s heart good to have seen
them, some twenty minutes afterwards, dropping
into hall (where they w'cre allowed to dine on
Sundays on the joint), fresh from cold baths,
and looking ruddy and clear, and hard enough
for any thing.

Again on Monday not a chance was lost.
The St. Ambrose boat started soon after one
o’clock for Abingdon. They sw'ung steadily
down the whole way,. and back again to Sand-
ford without a single spurt ; Miller generally
standing in the stern, and preaching above all
things steadiness and time. From Sandford up,
they were accompanied by half a dozen men or
so, who ran up the bank watching them. The
struggle for the first place on the river was cre-
ating great excitement in the rowdng world, and
these were some of the most keen connoisseurs,
who, having heard that St. Ambrose had changed
a man, w'ere on the look-out to satisfy themselves
as to how it would work. The general opinion
was veering round in favor of Oriel ; changes so
late in the races, and at such a critical moment,
were looked upon as very damaging.

Foremost among the runners on the bank was
a wiry, dark man, with sanguine complexion,
who went with a peculiar long, low stride, keep-
ing his keen eye well on the boat. Just above
Kennington Island, Jervis, noticing this partic-
ular spectator for the first time, called on the
crew, and, quickening his stroke, took them up
the reach at racing pace. As they lay in Iflfley
Lock, the dark man appeared above them, and
exchanged a few words, and a good deal of dumb

show, with the Captain and Miller, and then
disappeared.

From Iffiey up they went steadily again. On
the whole. Miller seemed to be in very good
spirits in the dressing-room ; he thought the
boat trimmed better, and went better than she
had ever done before, and complimented Blake
particularly for the ease with which he had
changed sides. They all went up in high spir-
its, calling on their way at “The Choughs” for
one glass of old ale round, which Miller was
graciously pleased to allow. Tom never re-
membered till after they were out again that
Hardy had never been there before, and felt em-
barrassed for a moment, but it soon passed off.
A moderate dinner and early to bed finished the
day, and Miller was justified in his parting re-
mark to the Captain, “Well, if we don’t win,
we can comfort ourselves that we haven’t drop-
ped a stitch this last two days, at any rate.”

Then the eventful day arose which Tom, and
many another man, felt was to make or mar St.
Ambrose. It was a glorious early-summer day,
without a cloud, scarcely a breath of air stirring.
“We shall have a fair start, at any rate,” was
the general feeling. We have already seen what
a throat-drving, nervous business the morning
of a race-day is, and must not go over the same
ground more than we can help ; so we will im-
agine the St. Ambrose boat down at the start-
ing-place,, lying close to the towing-path, just
before the first gun.

There is a much greater crowd than usual
opposite the first two boats. By this time
most of the other boats have found their places,
for there is not much chance of any thing very
exciting down below ; so, besides the men of
Oriel and St. Ambrose (who muster to-night of
all sorts, the fastest of the fast and the slowest
of the slow having been by this time shamed
into something like enthusiasm), many of other
colleges, whose boats haA^e no chance of bump-
ing or being bumped, flock to the point of at-
traction.

“Do you make out what the change is?”
says a backer of Oriel to his frieixl in the like
predicament.

“Yes, they’ve got a new No. 5, don’t you
see, and, by George, I don’t like his looks,”
answered his friend ; “ awfully long and strong
in the arm, and well-ribbed up. A devilish
awkward customer. I shall go and try to get
a hedge.”

“ Pooh,” says the other, “did you ever know
one man won a race ?”

“Aye, that I have,” says his friend, and
walks off towards the Oriel crowd to take five
to four on Oriel in half-sovereigns, if he can
get it.

Now their dark friend of 3’esterday comes
up at a trot, and pulls up close to the Captain,
M'ith whom he is evidently dear friends. He is
Avorth looking at, being coxswain of the O.U.B.,
the best steerer, runner, and sAvimmer in Ox-
ford ; amphibious himself, and sprung from an
amphibious race. His OAvn boat is in no dan-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ger, so he has left her to take care of her-
self. He is on the look-out for recruits for
the University crew, and no reeruiting ser-
geant has a shatter eye for the sort of stuff he
requires.

“What’s his name?” he says in a low tone
to Jervis, giving a jerk with his head towards
Hardy. “ Where did you get him ?”

“Hardy,” answers the Captain, in the same
tone ; “ it’s his first night in the boat.”

“I know that,” replies the coxswain; “I
never saw him row before yesterday. He’s
the fellow who sculls in that brown skiff, isn’t
he?”

“Yes, and I think he’ll do; keep your eye
on him.”

The coxswain nods as if he were somewhat
of the same mind, and examines Hardy with
the eye of a connoisseur, pretty much as the
judge at an agricultural show looks at the prize
bull. Hardy is tightening the strap of his
stretcher, and all-unconscious of the compli-
ments which are being paid him. The great
authority seems satisfied with his inspection,
grins, rubs his hands, and trots off to the
Oriel boat to make Comparisons.

Just as the first gun is heard. Grey sidles
nervously to the front of the crowd, as if he
were doing something very audacious, and
draws Hardy’s attention, exchanging sympa-
thizing nods with him, but saying nothing, for
he knows not what to say, and then disappear-
ing again in the crowd.

“ Hallo, Drysdale, is that you ?” says
Blake, as they push off from the shore. “I
thought you were going to take it easy in a
punt.”

“ So I thought,” said Drysdale, “ but I
couldn’t keep away, and here I am. I shall
run up ; and mind, if I see you within ten
feet, and cock-sure to win. I’ll give a view hallo.
I’ll be bound you shall hear it.”

“May it come speedily,” said Blake, and
then settled himself in his seat.

“ Eyes in the boat — mind now, steady all.
watch the stroke and don’t quicken.”

These are Miller’s last words ; every faculty
of himself and the crew being now devoted to
getting a good start. This is no difficult mat-
ter, as the water is like glass, and the boat lies
lightly on it, obeying the slightest dip of the
oars of bow and two, who just feel the water
twice or thrice in the last minute. Then, af-
ter a few moments of breathless hush on the
bank, the last gun is fired, and they are off.

The same scene of mad excitement ensues,
only tenfold more intense, as almost the whole
interest of the races is to-night concentrated
on the two head boats and their fate. At
every gate there is a jam, and the weaker ves-
sels are shoved into the ditches, upset, and left
unnoticed. The most active men, including
the O.U.B. coxswain, shun the gates alto-
gether, and take the big ditches in their stride,
making for the long bridges, that they may get
quietly over these and be safe for the best part

of the race. They know that the critical point
of the struggle will be near the finish.

Both boats made a beautiful start, and again,
as before, in the first dash the St. Ambrose
pace tells, and they gain their boat’s length be-
fore first winds fail ; then they settle down for
a long steady effort. Both crews are rowing
comparatively steady, reserving themselves for
the tug of war up above. Thus they pass the
Gut, and those two treacherous corners, the
scene of countless bumps, into the wider water
beyond, up under the willows.

Miller’s face is decidedly hopeful ; he shows
no sign, indeed, but you can see that he is not
the same man as he was at this place in the
last race. He feels that to-day the boat is full
of life, and that he can call on his crew with
hopes of an answer. His well-trained eye also
deteets that, while both crews are at full stretch,
his own, instead of losing, as it did on the last
night, is now gaining inch by inch on Oriel.
The gain is scarcely perceptible to him even ;
from the bank it is quite imperceptible ; but there
it is ; he is surer and surer of it, as one after
another the willows are left behind.

And now comes the pinch. The Oriel cap-
tain is beginning to be conscious of the fact
which has been dawning on Miller, but will not
acknowledge it to himself ; and as his coxswain
turns the boat’s head gently across the stream,
and makes for the Berkshire side and the goal,
now full in view, he smiles grimly as he quick-
ens his stroke ; he will shake off these light-
heeled gentry yet, as he did before.

Miller sees the move in a moment, and sig-
nals his captain, and the next stroke St. Am-
brose had quickened also ; and now there is no
mistake about it, St. Ambrose is creeping up
slowly but surely. The boat’s length lessens to
forty feet, thirty feet — surely and steadily less-
ens. But the race is not lost yet ; thirty feet
is a short space enough to look at on the water,
but a good bit to pick up foot by foot in the
last two or three hundred yards of a desperate
struggle. They are over under the Berkshire
side now, and there stands up the winning-post,
close ahead, all but won. The distance lessens,
and lessens still, but the Oriel crew stick stead-
ily and gallantly to their work, and will fight
every inch of distance to the last. The Oriel
men on the bank, who are rushing along some-
times in the water, sometimes out, hoarse, furi-
ous, madly alternating between hope and de-
spair, have no reason to be ashamed of a man
in the crew. Off the mouth of the Cherwell
there is still twenty feet between them. An-
other minute, and it will be over one way or
another. Every man in both crews is now do-
ing his best, and no mistake : tell me which boat
holds the most men who can do better than their
best at a pinch, who will risk a broken blood-
vessel, and I will tell you how it will end.
“ Hard pounding, gentlemen ; let’s see who will
pound longest,” the Duke is reported to have
said at Waterloo, and won. “Now Tummy,
lad, ’tis thou or I,” Big Ben said, as he came

TOM BliOWN AT OXFORD.

up to the last round of his hardest fight, and
won. Is there a man of that temper in either
crew to-night ? If so, now’s his time. For
both coxswains have called on their men for the
last effort ; Miller is whirling the tassel of his
right-hand tiller-rope round his head like a wiry
little lunatic ; from the towing-path, from Christ-
church meadow, from the row of punts, from the
clustered tops of the barges, comes a roar of en-
couragement and applause, and the hand, un-
able to resist the impulse, breaks with a crash
into the “ Jolly Young Waterman,” playing
two bars to the second. A bump in the Gut
is nothing — a few partisans on the towing-
path to cheer you, already out of breath ; but up
here at the very finish, with all Oxford looking
on, when the prize is the headship of the river
— once in a generation only do men get such a
chance.

Who ever saAV Jervis not up to his work?
The St. Ambrose stroke is glorious. Tom had
an atom of go still left in the very back of his
head, and at this moment he heard Drysdale’s
view hallo above all the din ; it seemed to give
him a lift, and other men besides in the boat,
for in another six strokes the gap is lessened,
and St. Ambrose has crept up to ten feet, and
now to five from the stern of Oriel. Weeks
afterwards Hardy confided to Tom that when he
heard that view hallo he seemed to feel the
muscles of his arms and legs turn into steel, and
did more work in the last twenty strokes than in
any other forty in the earlier part of the race.

Another fifty yards and Oriel is safe, but the
look on the Captain’s face is so ominous that
their coxswain glances over his shoulder. The
bow of St. Ambrose is within two feet of their
rudder. It is a moment for desperate expedi-
ents. He pulls his left tiller-rope suddenly,
thereby carrying the stern of his own boat out
of the line of the St. Ambrose, and calls on his
own crew once more ; they respond gallantly
yet, but the rudder is against them for a mo-
ment, and the boat drags. St. Ambrose over-
laps. “A bump ! a bump I” shout the St. Am-
brosians on shore. “ Row on ! row on !” screams
Miller. He has not yet felt the electric shock,
and knows he will miss his bump if the young
ones slacken for a moment. A young cox-
swain would have gone on making shots at the
stern of the Oriel boat, and so have lost.

A bump now and no mistake ; the bow of the
St. Ambrose boat jams the oar of the Oriel stroke,
and the two boats pass the winning-post with the
way that was on them when the bump was made ;
so near a shave was it.

Who can describe the scene on the bank ? It
was a hurly-burly of delirious joy, in the midst
of which took place a terrific combat between
Jack and the Oriel dog — a noble black bull ter-
rier belonging to the college in general, and no
one in particular — who always attended the races
and felt the misfortune keenly. Luckily, they
were parted without worse things happening ; for
though the Oriel men were savage, and not dis-
inclined for a jostle, the milk of human kindness

was too strong for the moment in their adversa-
ries. So J ack was choked off with some trouble,
and the Oriel men extricated themselves from
the crowd, carrying off Crib, their dog, and look-
ing straight before them into vacancy.

“Well rowed, boys!” says Jervis, turning
round to his crew as they lay panting on their
oars.

“ Well rowed, five!” says Miller, who even
in the hour of sueh a triumph is not inclined to
be general in laudation.

“Well rowed, five !-” is echoed from the bank ;
it is that cunning man, the recruiting-sergeant.
'•'•Fatally well rowed,” he adds to a comrade,
with whom he gets into one of the punts to cross
to Christchurch meadow; “ we must have him
in the University crew.”

“I don’t think you’ll get him to row, from
what I hear,” answers the other.

“Then he must be handcuffed and carried
into the boat by force,” says the O.U.B. cox-
swain ; “ why is not the press-gang an institu-
tion in this university ?”

CHAPTER XV.

A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS.

Certainlt Drysdale’s character came out
well that night. He did not seem the least jeal-
ous of the success which had been achieved
through his dismissal. On the contrary, there
was no man in the college who showed more in-
terest in the race, or joy at the result, than he.
Perhaps the pleasure of being out of it himself
may have reckoned for something with him.
In any case, there he was at the door with Jack,
to meet the crew as they landed after the race,
with a large pewter, foaming with shandygaff, in
each hand, for their recreation. Draco himself
could not have foi'bidden them to drink at that
moment ; so, amidst shaking of hands and clap-
pings on the back, the pewters travelled round
from stroke to bow, and then the crew went off to
their dressing-room, accompanied by Drysdale
and others.

“ Bravo ! it was the finest race that has been
seen on the river this six years ; every body says
so. You fellows have deserwed well of your
country. I’ve sent up to college to have supper
in my rooms, and you must all come. Hang
training ! there are only two more nights, and
you’re safe to keep your place. What do you
say. Captain ? eh. Miller ? Now be good-na-
tured for once.”

“Miller, what do you say?” said the Cap-
tain.

“ Well, we don’t got head of the river every
night,” said Miller. “I don’t object, if you’ll
all turn out and go to bed at eleven.”

“ That’s all right,” said Drysdale ; ‘ ‘ and now
let's go to the old ‘ Choughs ’ and have a glass
of ale while supper is getting ready. Eh,
Brown ?” and he hooked his arm into Tom’s
and led the way into the town.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“I’m so sorry you were not in it for the finish,” j
said Tom, who was quite touched by his friend’s
good-humor.

“ Are you ?” said Drysdale ; “ it’s more than
I am, then, I can tell you. If you could have
seen yourselves under the willows, you wouldn’t
have thought yourself much of an object of
envy. Jack and I were quite satisfied with our
share of work and glory on the bank. Weren’t
we, old fellow?” at which salutation Jack rear-
ed himself on his hind legs and licked his mas-
ter’s hand.

“Well, you’re a real good fellow, for taking
it as you do. I don’t think I could have come
near the river if I had been you.”

“ I take every thing as it comes,” said
Drysdale. “The next race is on Derby day,
and I couldn’t have-gone if I hadn’t been turned
out of the boat ; that’s a compensation, you see.
Here we are. I wonder if Miss Patty has heard
of the victory?”

They turned down the little passage entrance
of “The Choughs” as he spoke, followed by
most of the crew, and by a tail of younger St.
Ambrosians, their admirers, and the bar was
crowded the next moment. Patty was there,
of course, and her services were in great requi-
sition ; for though each of the crew only took a
small glass of the old ale, they made as much
fuss about it with the pretty bar-maid as if they
were drinking hogsheads. In fact, it had be-
come clearly the correct thing with the St. Am-
brosians to make much of Patty ; and, consider-
ing the circumstances, it -was only a wonder that
she was not more spoilt than seemed to be the
case. Indeed, as Hardy stood up in the corner
opposite to the landlady’s chair, a silent on-look-
er at the scene, he couldn’t help admitting to
himself that the girl held her own well, without
doing or saying any thing unbecoming a mod-
est woman. And it was a hard thing for him
to be fair to her, for what he saw now in a few
minutes confirmed the impression which his
former visit had left on his mind — that his
friend was safe in her toils; how deeply, of
course, he could not judge ; but that there was
more between them than he could approve was
now clear enough to him ; and he stood silent,
leaning against the wall in that farthest corner,
in the shadow of a projecting cupboard, much
distressed in mind, and pondering over wliat it
behooved him to do under the circumstances.
With the exception of a civil sentence or two to
the old landlady, who sat opposite him knit-
ting, and casting rather uneasy looks from time
to time towards the front of the bar, he spoke to
no one. In fact, nobody came near that end
of the room, and their existence seemed to have
been forgotten by the rest.

Tom had been a little uncomfortable for the
first minute ; but after seeing Hardy take his
glass of ale, and then missing him, he forgot all
about him, and was too busy with his own af-
fairs to trouble himself further. He had be-
come a sort of drawer, or bar-man at “The
Choughs,” and presided, under Patty, over the '
6

I distribution of the ale, giving an eye to his
chief to see that she was not put upon.

Drysdale and Jack left, after a sliort stay, to
see that the supper was being properly prepared.
Soon afterwards Patty went off out of tlie bar
in answer to some bell which called her to an-
other part of the house ; and the St. Ambro-
sians voted that it was time to go off to college
to supper, and cleared out into the street.

Tom went out with the last batch of them,
but lingered a moment in the passage outside.
He knew the house and its ways well enough
by this time. The next mome,i^‘ appear-
ed from a side door, which leil“' ..p,.jither part
of the house.

“ So you’re not going to stay and play a game
with aunt,” she said ; “ what makes you in such
a hurry ?”

“I must go up to college ; there’s a supper to
celebrate our getting head of the river.” Patty
looked down and pouted a little. Tom took her
hand, and said, sentimentally, “Don’t be cross,
now ; you know that I would sooner stay here,
don’t you ?”

She tossed her head and pulled away her hand,
and then, changing the subject, said:

“Who’s that ugly old fellow W'ho was here
again to-night ?”

“ There was no one older than Miller, and he
is rather an admirer of yours. I shall tell him
you called him ugly.”

“ Oh, I don’t mean Mr. Miller ; you know
that well enough,” she answered. “I mean
him in the old rough coat, who don’t talk to any
one.”

“Ugly old fellow, Patty? Why you mean
Hardy. He’s a great friend of mine, and you
must like him for my sake.”

“I’m sure I won’t. I don’t like him a bit ;
he looks so cross at me.”

“It’s all your fancy. There now, good-
night.”

“You shan’t go, however, till you’ve given
me that handkerchief. You promised it me if
you got head of the river.”

“Oh! you little story-teller. Why, they are
my college colors. I wouldn’t part with them
for worlds. I’ll give 3"ou a lock of my hair, and
the prettiest handkerchief you can find in Ox-
ford ; but not this.”

“ But I u-ill have it, and you did promise me
it,” she said, and put up her hands suddenly,
and untied the bow of Tom’s neck-handkerchief.
He caught her wrists in his hands and looked
down into her eyes, in which, if he saw a little
pique at his going, he saw other things which
stirred in him strange feelings of triumph and
tenderness.

“ Well, then, you shall pay for it, anyhow,”
lie said. Why need I tell what followed?
There was a little struggle — a “Go along, do,
Mr. Brown !” and the next minute Tom, minus
liis handkerchief, was hurrying after his com-
panions ; and Patty was watching him from the
door, and setting her cap to rights. Then slic
turned and went back into the bar, and started,

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

and turned red, as she saw Hardy there, still
standing in the farther corner, opposite her
aunt. He finished his glass of ale as she came
in, and then passed out, wishing them “Good-
night.”

“Why, aunt,” she said, “ I thought they were
all gone. Who was that sour-looking man ?”

“He seems a nice quiet gentleman, my
dear,” said the old lady, looking up. “I’m
sure he’s much better than those ones as makes
so much racket in the bar. But where have
you been. Fatty ?”

“ Oh,.^^'" “p ''Qmmercial room, aunt. Won’t
you have cribbage ?” and Patty took

up the caf^s and set the board out, the old lady
looking at her doubtfully all the time through
her spectacles. She was beginning to wish that
the college gentlemen wouldn’t come so much
to the house, though they were very good cus-
tomers.

Tom, minus his handkerchief, hurried after
his comrades, and caught them up before they
,got up to college. They were all there but
Hardy, whose absence vexed our hero for a mo-
ment ; he had hoped that Hardy, now that he
was -in the boat, would have shaken off all his
reserve towards the other men, and blamed him
because he had not done so at once. There
could be no reason for it but his own oddness,
he thought, for every one was full of his praises
as they strolled on talking of the race. Miller
praised his style, and time, and pluck. “ Didn’t
you feel how the boat sprung when I called on
you at the Cherwell?” he said to the Captain.
“ Drysdale was always dead beat at the Gut,
and just like a log in the boat, pretty much like
some of the rest of you.”

“ He’s in such good training, too,” said Di-
ogenes ; “ I shall find out how he diets him-
self.”

“We’ve pretty well done with that, I should
hope,” said No. G. “ There are only two more
nights, and nothing can touch us now.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Miller.
“ Mind now, all of you, don’t let us have any
nonsense till the races are over and we are all
safe.”

And so they talked on till they reached col-
lege, and then dispersed to their rooms to wash
and dress, and met again in Drysdale’s rooms,
where supper was awaiting them.

Again Hardy did not appear. Drysdale sent
a scout to his rooms, who brought back word
that he could not find him ; so Drysdale set to
work to do the honors of his table, and enjoyed
the pleasure of tempting the crew with all sorts
of forbidden hot liquors, which he and the rest
of the non-professionals imbibed freely. But
with Miller’s eye on them, and the example of
Diogenes and the Captain before them, the rest
of the crew exercised an abstemiousness which
would have been admirable, had it not been in
a great measure compulsory.

It was a great success, this supper at Drys-
dale’s, although knocked up at an hour’s notice.
The triumph of their boat had, for the time.

the effect of warming up and drawing out the
feeling of fellowship which is the soul of col-
lege life. Though only a few men besides the
crew sat down to supper, long before it was clear-
ed away men of every set in the college came
in, in the highest spirits, and the room was
crowded. For Drysdale sent round to every
man in the college with whom he had a speak-
ing acquaintance, and they flocked in and sat
where they could, and men talked and laughed
with neighbors with whom, perhaps, they had
never exchanged a word since the time Avhen
they were freshmen together.

Of course there were speeches, cheered to the
echo, and songs, of which the choruses might
have been heard in the High Street. At a lit-
tle before eleven, nevertheless, despite the prot-
estations of Drysdale, and the passive resistance
of several of their number. Miller carried off the
crew, and many of the other guests went at the
same time, leaving their host and a small circle
to make a night of it.

Tom went to his rooms in high spirits, hum-
ming the air of one of the songs he had just
heard ; but he had scarcely thrown his gown
on a chair when a thought struck him, and he
ran down stairs again and across to Hardy’s
rooms.

Hardy was sitting with some cold tea poured
out, but untasted, before him, and no books
open — a very unusual thing with him at night.
But Tom either did not or would not notice
that there was any thing unusual.

He seated himself, and began gossiping away
as fast as he could, without looking much at
the other. He began by recounting all the
complimentary things which had been said by
Miller and others of Hardj^’s pulling. Then he
went on to the supper party ; what a jolly even-
ing they had had ; he did not remember any
thing so pleasant since he had been up, and he
retailed the speeches and named the best songs.
“You really ought to have been there. Why
didn’t you come ? Drysdale sent over for you.
I’m sui'e every one wished you had been there.
Didn’t you get his message ?”

“ I didn’t feel up to going,” said Hardy.

“ There’s nothing the matter, eh ?” said Tom,
as the thought crossed his mind that perhaps
Hardy had hurt himself in the race, as he had
not been regularly training.

“No, nothing,” answered the other.

Tom tried to make play again, but soon
came to an end of his talk. It was impossible
to make head against that cold silence. At
last he stopped, looked at Hardy for a minute,
who was staring abstractedly at the sword over
his mantel-piece, and then said :

“There is something the matter, though.
Don’t sit glowering as if you had swallowed a
furze-bush. Why, you haven’t been smoking,
old boy,” he added, getting up and putting his
hand on the other’s shoulder. “ I see, that’s it.
Here, take one of my weeds ; they’re mild.
Miller allows two of these a day.”

No, thank’ee,” said Hardy, rousing him-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

self; “ Miller hasn’t interfered with my smok-
ing, and I will have a pipe, for I think I want it.”

“ Well, I don’t see that it does you any
good,” said Tom, after watching him fill and
light, and smoke for some minutes without say-
ing a word. “ Here, I’ve managed the one
thing I had at heart. You are in the crew,
and we are head of the river, and every body is
praising your rowing up to the skies, and saying
that the bump was all your doing. And here I
come to tell you, and not a word can I get out
of you. Ain’t you pleased ? Do you think we
shall keep our place?” He paused a moment.

“ Hang it all, I say,” he added, losing all pa-
tience ; “ swear a little, if you can’t do any
thing else. Let’s hear your voice ; it isn’t such
a tender one that you need keep it all shut up.”

“ Well,” said Hardy, making a great effort ;
“ the real fact is, I have something, and some-
thing very serious to say to you.”

“Then I’m not going to listen to it,” broke
in Tom ; “ I’m not serious, and I won’t be seri-
ous, and no one shall make me serious to-night.
It’s no use, so don’t look glum. But isn’t the
ale at ‘ The Choughs ’ good ? and isn’t it a dear
little place ?”

“It’s that place I want to talk to you about,”
said Hardy, turning his chair suddenly so as to
front his visitor. “ Now, Brown, we haven’t
known one another long, but I think I under-
stand you, and I know I like you, and I hope
you like me.”

“Well, well, well,” broke in Tom, “of course
I like you, old fellow, or else I shouldn’t come
poking after you, and wasting so much of your
time, and sitting on your cursed hard chairs in
the middle of the races. What has liking to
do with ‘The Choughs,’ or ‘The Choughs’
with long faces? You ought to have had an-
other glass of ale there.”

“I wdsh you had never had a glass of ale
there,” said Hardy, bolting out his words as if
they were red hot. “ Brown, you have no riglit
to go to that place.”

“ Why?” said Tom, sitting up in his chair,
and beginning to be nettled.

“ You know why,” said Hardy, looking him
full in the face, and puffing out huge volumes
of smoke. In spite of the bluntness of the at-
tack, there was a yearning look which spread
over the rugged brow, and shone out of the
deep-set eyes of the speaker, which almost con-
quered Tom. But first pride, and then the con-
sciousness of what was coming next, which be-
gan to dawn on him, rose in his heart. It was
all he could do to meet that look full, but he
managed it, though he flushed to the roots of his
hair, as he simply repeated through his set
teeth, “ Why ?”

“ I say again,” said Hardy, “ you know
why.”

“I see what you mean,” said Tom, slo^v-
ly; “as you say, we have not known one an-
other long ; long enough, though, I should have
thought, for you to have been more charitable.
Why am I not to go to ‘ The Choughs ?’ Be-

cause there happens to be a pretty bar-maid
there ? All our crow go, and tw'cnty other men
besides.”

“ Yes ; but do any of them go in the sort of
way you do ? Does she look at any one of them
as she does at you?”

“ How do I know ?”

“That’s not fair, or true, or like you. Brown,”
said Hardy, getting up, and beginning to walk
up and down the room. “ You know that
that girl doesn’t care a straw for the other men
who go there. You do know that she is begin-
ning to care for you.”

“You seem to know a great deal about it,”
said Tom ; “ I don’t believe you were ever there
before two days ago.”

“ No, I never was.”

“ Then I think you needn’t be quite so quick
at finding fault. If there were any thing I
didn’t wish you to see, do you think I should
have taken you there ? I tell you she is quite
able to take care of herself.”

“ So I believe,” said Hardy ; “if she were a
mere giddy, light girl, setting her cap at every
man who came in, it wouldn’t matter so much
— for her, at any rate. She can take care of
herself well enough so far as the rest are con-
cerned, but you know it isn’t so with you. You
know it now. Brown ; tell the truth ; any one
with half an eye can see it.”

“ You seem to have made pretty good use of
your eyes in these two nights, anyhow,” said
Tom.

“I don’t mind your sneers. Brown,” said
Hardy, as he tramped up and down, with his
arms locked behind him; “I have taken on
myself to speak to you about this : I should be
no true friend if I shirked it. I’m four years
older than you, and have seen more of the world
and of this place than you. You shan’t go on
with this folly, this sin, for want of warning.”

“ So it seems,” said Tom, doggedly. “Now
I think I’ve had warning enough ; suppose we
drop the subject.”

Hardy stopped in his walk, and turned on
Tom with a look of anger. “ Not yet,” he said,
firmly ; ‘ ‘ you know best how and why you have
done it, but you know that somehow or other
you have made that girl like you.”

“ Suppose I have, what then ? whose business
is that but mine and hers ?”

“It’s the business of every one who won’t
stand by and see the devil’s game played under
his nose if he can hinder it.”

“What right have you to talk about the
devil’s game to me ?” said Tom. “ I’ll tell you
what — if you and I are to keep friends, we had
better drop this subject.”

“ If we are to keep friends we must go to the
bottom of it. There are only two endings to this
sort of business, and you know it as well as I.”
“ A right and a wrong one, eh? and because
you call me your friend you assume that my end
will be the wrong one.”

“ I do call you my friend, and I say the end
must be the wrong one here. There’s no right

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOKD.

end. Think of your family. You don’t mean
to say — you dare not tell me, that you will mar-
ry her?”

“I dare not tell you !” said Tom, starting up
in his turn ; “I dare tell you or any man any
thing I please. But I won’t tell you or any
man any thing on compulsion.”

“I repeat,” went on Hardy, “you dare not
say you mean to marry her. You don’t mean
it — and, as you don’t, to kiss her as you did to-
night— ”

“ So you were sneaking behind to watch me !”
burst out Tom, chafing with rage, and glad to
find any handle for a quarrel. The two men
stood fronting one another, the younger writh-
ing with the sense of shame and outraged pride,
and longing for a fierce answer — a blow — any
thing to give vent to the furies which were tear-
ing him.

But at the end of a few seconds the elder an-
swered, calmly and slowly :

“I will not take those words from any man;
you had better leave my rooms.”

“ If I. do, I shall not come back till you have
altered your opinions.”

“ You need not come back till you have al-
tered yours.”

The next moment Tom was in the passage ;
the next, striding up and dovn^ the side of the
inner quadrangle in the pale moonlight.

Poor fellow! it was no pleasant walking-
ground for him. Is it worth our while to follow
him up and down in his tramp ? We have most
of us walked the like marches at one time or
another of our lives. The memory of them is
by no means one wbich we can dwell on with
pleasure. Times they were of blinding and
driving storm, and howling winds, out of which
voices as of evil spirits spoke close in our ears —
tauntingly, temptingly, whispering to the mis-
chievous wild beast which lurks in the bottom
of all our hearts — now, “ Eouse up ! art thou a
man and darest not do this thing?” now, “Eise,
kill and eat — it is thine, wilt thou not take it ?
Shall the flimsy scruples of this teacher, or the
sanctified cant of that, bar thy way, and balk
thee of thine own ? Thou hast strength to brave
them — to brave all things in earth, or heaven,
or hell ; put out thy strength, and be a man !”
Then did not the wild beast within us shake
itself, and feel its power, sweeping away all the
“Thou shalt nots” which the Law wrote up
before us in letters of fire, with the “I will"
of hardy, godless, self-assertion ? And all the
while — which alone made the storm really
dreadful to us — was there not the still small
voice — never to be altogether silenced by the
roarings of the tempest of passion, by the evil
voices, by our own violent attempts to stifle it —
the still small voice appealing to the man, the
true man, within us, which is made in the im-
age of God — calling on him to assert his do-
minion over the wild beast — to obey, and con-
quer, and live ? Aye ! and though we may
have followed the other voices, have we not,
while following them, confessed in our hearts

that all true strength, and nobleness, and man-
liness was to be found in the other path ? Do
I say that most of us have had to tread this
path and fight this battle? Surely I might
have said all of us; all, at least, who have
passed the bright days of their boyhood. The
clear and keen intellect no less than the dull
and heavy ; the weak, the cold, the nervous, no
less than the strong and passionate of body.
The arms and the field have been divers — can
have been the same, I suppose, to no two men,
but the battle must have been the same to all.
One here and there may have had a foretaste
of it as a boy ; but it is the young man’s battle,
and not the boy’s, thank God for it ! That
most hateful and fearful of all realities, call it
by what name we will — self, the natural man,
the old Adam — must have risen up before each
of us in early manhood, if not sooner, challeng-
ing the true man within us, to which the Spirit
of God is speaking, to a struggle for life or
death.

Gird yourself, then, for the fight, my young
brother, and take up the pledge which was
made for you when you were a helpless child.
This world, and all others, time and eternity,
for you hang upon the issue. This enemy
must be met and vanquished — not finally, for
no man while on earth, I suppose, can say that
he is slain ; but, when once known and recog-
nized, met and vanquished he must be, by
God’s help, in this and that encounter, before
you can be truly called a , man ; before you
can really enjoy any one even of this world’s
good things.

The strife was no light one for our hero on
the night in his life at which we have arrived.
The quiet sky overhead, the quiet, solemn old
buildings, under the shadow of which he stood,
brought him no peace. He fled frqm them
into his own rooms ; he lighted his candles and
tried to read, and force the whole matter from
his thoughts ; but it was useless ; back it came
again and again. The more impatient of its
presence he became, the less could he shake it
off. Some decision he must make ; what
should it be? He could have no peace till it
was taken. The veil had been drawn aside
thoroughly, and once for all. Twice he was
on the point of returning to Hardy’s rooms to
thank him, confess, and consult; but the tide
rolled back again. As the truth of the warn-
ing sank deeper and deeper into him, the irri-
tation against him who had uttered it grew also.
He could not and would not be fair yet. It is
no easy thing for any one of us to put the whole
burden of any folly or sin on our own backs all
at once. “If he had done it in any other
way,” thought Tom, “I might have thanked
him.”

Another effort to shake off the wdiole ques-
tion. Down into the quadrangle again ; lights
in Drysdale’s rooms. He goes up, and finds
the remains of the supper, tankards full of egg-
flip and cardinal, and a party playing at vingt-
un. Pie drinks freely, careless of training or

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

boat-racing, anxious only to drown thought.
He sits down to play. The boisterous talk of
some, the eager keen looks of others, jar on
him equally. One minute he is absent, the
ne.xt boisterous, then irritable, then moody. A
college card-party is no place- to-night for him.
He loses his money, is disgusted at last, and
gets to his own rooms by midnight; goes to
bed feverish, dissatisfied with himself, with all
the M'orld. The inexorable question pursues
him even into the strange, helpless land of
dreams, demanding a decision, when he has no
longer power of will to choose either good or
evil.

But how fared it all this time with the phy-
sician? Alas! little better than with his pa-
tient. ■ His was the deeper and more sensitive
nature. Keenly conscious of his own position,
he had always avoided any but the most formal
intercourse with the men in his college whom
he would have liked most to live with. This
was the first friendship he had made among
them, and he valued it accordingly; and now
it seemed to lie at his feet in hopeless frag-
ments, and cast down too by his own hand.
Bitterly he blamed himself over and over again
as he recalled every word that had passed —
not for having spoken — that he felt had been
a -sacred duty — but for the harshness and sud-
denness with which he seemed to himself to
have done it.

“One touch of gentleness or sympathy, and
I might have won him. As it was, how could
he have met me otherwise than he did — hard
word, for hard w'ord. hasty answer for prpud
reproof? Can I go to him and recall it all ?
No! I can’t trust myself; I shall only make
matters worse. Besides, he may think that
the servitor — Ah ! am I there again ? The old
sore — self, self, self! I nurse my own pride;
I value it more than my friend; and yet — no,
no ! I can not go, though I think I could die
for him. The sin, if sin there must be, be on
my head. Would to God I could bear the
sting of it ! But there will be none — how can
I fear? he is too true, too manly. Rough and
brutal as my words have been, they have
shown him the gulf. He will, he must escape
it. But will he ever come back to me? I
care not, so he escape.”

How can my poor words follow the strong-
loving man in the wrestlings of his spirit, till
far on in the quiet night he laid the whole be-
fore the Lord and slept! Yes, my brother,
even so : the old, old story ; but start not at the
phrase, though you may never have found its
meaning. He laid the whole before the Lord
in prayer, for his friend, for himself, for the
whole world.

And you, too, if ever you are tried as he
was — as every man must be in one way or an-
other— must learn to do the like with every
burden on your soul, if you would not have it
hanging round you heavily, and ever more
heavily, and dragging you down lower and low-
er till your dying day.

CHARTER XVI.

THE STORM RAGES.

Hardy was early in the chapel the next
morning. It was his week for pricking in.
Every man who entered — from the early men
who strolled in quietly while the bell was still
ringing, to the hurrying, half-dressed loiterers
who crushed in as the porter was closing the
doors, and disturbed the congregation in the
middle of the confession — gave him a turn (as
the expressive phrase is), and every turn only-
ended in disappointment. He put by his list at
last, when the doors were fairly shut, with a
sigh. He had half expected to see Tom come
into morning chapel with a face from which he
might have gathered hope that his friend had
taken the right path. But Tom did not come
at all, and Hardy felt it was a bad sign.

They did not meet till the evening at the
river, when the boat went down for a steady
pull, and then Hardy saw at once that all was
going wrong. Neither spoke to or looked at
the other. Hardy expected some one to remark
it, but nobody did. After the pull they walked
up, and Tom as usual led the way, as if nothing
had happened, into “The Choughs.” Hardy-
paused for a moment, and then went in too, and
staid till the rest of the crew left. Tom delib-
erately staid after them all. Hardy turned for
a moment as he was leaving the bar, and saw
him settling himself down in his chair with an
air of defiance, meant evidently for him, which
would have made most men angry. He was
irritated for a moment, and then was filled
with ruth for the poor wrong-headed youngster
who was heaping up coals of fire for his own
head. In his momentary anger Hardy said to
himself, “Well, I have done what I can; now
he must go his own way;” but such a thought
was soon kicked in disgrace from his noble and
well-disciplined mind. He resolved that, let it
cost what it might in the shape of loss of time
and trial of temper, he would leave no stone un-
turned, and spare no pains, to deliver his friend
of yesterday from the slough into which he was
plunging. How he might best work for this
end occupied his thoughts as he walked towards
college.

Tom sat on at “The Choughs,” glorifying
himself in the thought that now, at any rate,
he had shown Hardy that he wasn’t to be dra-
gooned into doing or not doing any thing. He
had had a bad time of it all day', and his good
angel had fought hard for victory ; but self-will
was too strong for the time. When he staid be-
hind the rest, it was more out of bravado than
from any defined purpose of pursuing what he
tried to pursuade himself was an innocent flir-
tation. When he left the house some hours af-
terwards he was deeper in the toils than ever,
and dark clouds were gathering over his heart.
From that time he w-as an altered man, and al-
tering as rapidly for the worse in body as in
mind. Hardy saw the change in both, and
groaned over it in secret. Miller’s quick eye

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

detected the bodily change. After the next
race lie drew Tom aside, and said :

“Why, Brown, what’s the matter? What
have you been about? You’re breaking down.
Hold on, man ; there’s only one more night.”

“Never fear,” said Tom, proudly, “I shall
last it out.”

And in the last race he did his work again,
though it cost him more than all the preceding
ones put together ; and when he got out of the
boat he could scarcely walk or see. He felt a
fierce kind of joy in his own distress, and wish-
ed that there were more races to come. But
Miller, as he walked up arm-in-arm with the
Captain, took a different view of the subject.

“Well, it’s all right, you see,” said the Cap-
tain; “but we’re not a boat’s length better
than Oriel over the course, after all. How was
it we bumped them ? If any thing, they drew
a little on us to-night.”

“Aye, half a boat’s length, I should say,”
answered Miller. “I’m uncommonly glad it’s
over ; Brown is going all to pieces ; he wouldn’t
stand another race, and tve haven’t a man to
put in his place.”

“It’s odd, too,” said the Captain; “I put
him down as a laster, and he has trained well.
Perhaps he has overdone it a little. However,
it don’t matter now.”

So the races were over ; and that night a great
supper was held in St. Ambrose Hall, to which
were bidden, and came, the crews of all the
boats from Exeter upward. The Dean, with
many misgivings and cautions, had allowed' the
hall to be used, on pressure from Miller and
Jervis. Miller was a bachelor and had taken a
good degree, and Jervis bore a high character
and was expected to do well in the schools. So
the poor Dean gave it to them, extracting many
promises in exchange for his permission ; and
flitted uneasily about all the evening in his cap
and gown, instead of working on at his edition
of the Fathers, which occupied every minute of
his leisure, and was making an old man of him
before his time.

From eight to eleven the fine old pointed
Avindows of St. Ambrose Hall blazed with light,
and the choruses of songs, and the cheers which
followed the short intervals of silence which the
speeches made, rang out over the quadrangles,
and made the poor Dean amble about in a state
of nervous bewilderment. Inside there was hearty
feasting, such as had not been seen there, for
aught I know, since the day when the king
came back to “enjoy his own again.” The
one old cup, relic of the Middle Ages, which
had survived the civil wars — St. Ambrose’s had
been a right loyal college, and the plate had
gone without a murmur into Charles the First’s
war-chest — went round and round; and rival
crews pledged one another out of it, and the
massive tankards of a later day, in all good
faith and good fellowship. Mailed knights,
grave bishops, royal persons of either sex, and
“other our benefhctors,” looked down on the
scene from their heavy gilded frames, and, let

us hope, not unkindly. All passed off well and
quietly ; the out-college men were gone, the
lights were out, and the butler had locked the
hall door by a quarter past eleA^en, and the Dean
returned in peace to his own rooms.

Had Tom been told a week before that he
would not have enjoyed that night, that it would
not have been among the happiest and proudest
of his life, he Avould have set his informer down
as a madman. As it was, he never once rose
to the spirit of the feast, and wished it all over
a dozen times. He deserved not to enjoy it ;
but not so Hardy, who was nevertheless almost
as much out of tune as Tom ; though the Uni-
versity coxswain had singled him out, named
him in his speech, sat by him and talked to him
for a quarter of an hour, and asked him to go
to the Henley and Thames regattas in the Ox-
ford cretv.

The next evening, as usual, Tom found him-
self at “ The Choughs,” with half a dozen others.
Patty was in the bar by herself, looking prettier
than ever. One by one the rest of the men
dropped off, the last saying, “Are you coming.
Brown ?” and being answered in the negative.

He sat still, watching Patty as she flitted
about, washing up the ale glasses and putting
them on their shelves, and getting out her work-
basket ; and then she came and sat down in her
aunt’s chair opposite him, and began stitching
away demurely at an apron she was making.
Then he broke silence :

“Where’s your aunt to-night, Patty ?”

“Oh, she has gone away for a few days, for a
visit to some friends.”

“ You and I will keep house, then, together ;
you shall teach me all the tricks of the trade.
I shall make a famous bar -man, don’t you
think ?”

“ You must learn to behave better, then. But
I promised aunt to shut up at nine ; so you must
go when it strikes. Now promise me you will
go.”

“Go at nine ! what, in half an hour ? The
first evening I have ever had a chance of spend-
ing alone with you ; do you think it likely ?”
and he looked into her eyes. She turned away
Avith a slight shiv^er, and a deep blush.

His nervous system had been so unusually
excited in the last feAV days, that he seemed to
knoAv every thing that Avas passing in her mind.
He took her hand. “ Why, Patty, you’re not
afraid of me, surely ?” he said, gently.

“ No, not Avhen you’re like you are noAA'. But
yon frightened me just this minute. I never
saAv you look so before. Has any thing hap-
pened to you ?”

“No, nothing. Now, then, Ave’re going to
have a jolly evening, and play Darby and Joan
together,” he said, turning aAvay and going to
the bar Avindow ; “ shall I shut up, Patty ?”

“ No, it isn’t nine yet ; somebody may come
in.”

“That’s just why I mean to put the shutters
up ; I don’t Avant any body.”

“ Yes, but I do, though. Noav I declare, Mr.

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED.

Brown, if you go on shutting up, I’ll run into
the kitchen and sit with Dick.”

“ Why will you call me ‘ Mr, Brown?’ ”

“ Why, what should I call you ?”

“ Tom, of course.”

“Oh, I never! one would think you was my
brother,” said Patty, looking up with a pretty
pertness which she had a most bewitching way
of putting on. Tom’s rejoinder, and the little
squabble which they had afterwards about where
her work-table should stand, and other such mat-
ters, may be passed over. At last he was brought
to reason, and to anchor opposite his enchant-
ress, the work-table between them ; and he sat
leaning back in his chair, and watching her, as
she stitched away without ever lifting her eyes.
He was in no hurry to break the silence. The
position was particularly fascinating to him, for
he had scarcely ever yet had a good look at her
before, without fear of attracting attention or
being interrupted. At last he roused himself.

“ Any of our men been here to-day, Patty?”
he said, sitting up.

“There now. I’ve won,” she laughed; “I
said to myself, I wouldn’t speak first, and I
haven’t. What a time you were ! I thought
you would never begin.”

“ You’re a little goose ! Xow I begin, then ;
who’ve been here to-day ?”

“ Of your college ? let me see and she look-
ed away across to the bar window, pricking her
needle into the table. “ There was Mr. Drys-
dale and some others called for a glass of ale
as they passed, going out driving. Then there
was Mr. Smith and them from the boats, about
four; and that ugly one — I can’t mind his
name — ”

“What, Hardy?”

“Yes, that’s it; he was here about half-past
six, and — ”

“ What, Hardy here after hall ?” interrupted
Tom, utterly astonished.

“Yes, after your dinner up at college. He’s
been here two or three times lately.”

“ The deuce he has !”

“Yes, and he talks so pleasant to aunt, too.
I’m sure he is a very nice gentleman, after all.
He sat and talked to-night for half an hour, I
should think.”

“ What did he talk about?” said Tom, with
a sneer.

“Oh, he asked me whether I had a mother,
and where I came from, and all about my bring-
ing up, and made me feel quite pleasant. He
is so nice and quiet and respectful, not like
most of you. I’m going to like him very much,
as you told me.”

“ I don’t tell you so now.”

“But you did say he was your great friend.”
“Well, he isn’t that now.”

“What, have you quarrelled ?”

“Yes.”-

“Dear ! dear ! how odd you gentlemen are !”
“Why, it isn’t a very odd thing for men to
quarrel, is it ?”

“ No, not in the public room. They’re al-

ways quarrelling there over their drink and the
bagatelle-board, and Dick has to turn them
out. But gentlemen ought to know better.”

“ They don’t, you see, Patty.”

“But what did you quarrel about?”

“ Guess.”

“How can I guess ? What was it about?”

“About you.”

“About me!” she said, looking up from her
w’ork in wonder. “ How could you quarrel
about me ?”

“Well, I’ll tell you ; he said I had no right
to come here. You won’t like him after that,
will you, Patty ?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Patty, going
on with her work, and looking troubled.

They sat still for some minutes. Evil thoughts
crowded into Tom’s head. He was in the hu-
mor for thinking evil thoughts, and, putting the
worst construction on Hardy’s visits, fimeied he
came there as his rival. He did not trust him-
self to speak till he had mastered his precious
discovery, and put it away in the back of his
heart, and weighted it down there with a good
covering of hatred and revenge, to be brought
out as occasion should serve. He was plung-
ing down rapidly enough now; but he had new
motives for making the most of his time, and
never played his cards better or made more prog-
ress. When a man sits down to such a game,
the devil will take good care he shan’t want
cunning or strength. It was ten o’clock in-
stead of nine before he left, which he did with a
feeling of triumph. Poor Patty remained be-
hind and shut up the bar, while Dick was lock-
ing the front door, her heart in a flutter and
her hands shaking. She hardly knew whether
to laugh or cry ; she felt the change which had
come over him, and was half-fascinatcd and
half-repelled by it.

Tom walked quickly back to college, in a
mood which I do not care to describe. The
only one of his thoughts which my readers need
be troubled with put itself into some such words
as these in his head: “ So, it’s Abingdon Fair
next Thursday, and she has half-promised to go
with me. I know I can make it certain. Who’ll
be going besides? Drysdale, I’ll be bound.
I’ll go and see him.”

On entering college he went straight to Drys-
dale’s rooms, and drank deeply, and played high
into the short hours of the night, but found no
opportunity of speaking.

Deeper and deeper yet for the next few days,
downward and ever faster downward he plunged,
the light getting fainter and ever fainter above
his head. Little good can come of dwelling on
those days. He left off pirlling, shunned his
old friends, and lived with the very worst men
he knew in college, who were ready enough to
let him share all their brutal orgies.

Drysdale, who was often present, Avondered
at the change, which he saw plainly enough.
He was sorry for it, in his way, but it was no
business of his. He began to think that Brown
was a good enough fellow before, but would

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

make a devilish disagreeable one if he was go-
ing to turn fast man.

At “The Choughs” all went on as if the
downward path knew how to make itself smooth.
Now that the races were over, and so many oth-
er attractions going on in Oxford, very few men
came in to interfere with him. He was scarce-
ly ever away from Patty’s side in the evenings
while her aunt was absent, and gained more and
more power over her. He might have had
some compassion, but that he was spurred on by
hearing how Hardy haunted the place now, at
times when he could not be there. He felt that
there was an influence struggling with his in the
girl’s mind ; he laid it to Hardy’s door, and im-
puted it still more and more to motives as base
as his own. But Abingdon Fair was coming on
Thursday. When he left “ The Choughs ” on
Tuesday night, he had extracted a promise from
Patty to accompany him there, and had arranged
their place of meeting.

All that remained to be done was to see if
Drysdale was going. Somehow he felt a disin-
clination to go alone with Patty. Drysdale was
the only man of those he was now living with
to- whom he felt the least attraction. In a
vague way he clung to him; and though he
never faced the thought of what he was about
fairly, yet it passed through his mind that even
in Drysdale’s company he would be safer than if
alone. It was all pitiless, blind, wild work, with-
out rudder or compass; the wish that nothing
very bad might come out of it all, however, came
up in spite of him now and again, and he looked
to Drysdale, and longed to become even as he.

Drysdale was going. He was very reserved
on the subject, but at last confessed that he was
not going alone. Tom persisted. Drysdale
was too lazy and careless to keep any thing from
a man who was bent on knowing it. In the end,
it was arranged that he should drive Tom out
the next afternoon. Pie did so. .* They stopped
at a small public house some two miles out of
Oxford. The cart was put up, and after care-
fully scanning the neighborhood they walked
quickly to the door of a pretty retired cottage.
As they entered, Drysdale said :

“ By Jove ! I thought I caught a glimpse of
your friend Hardy at that turn.”

“ Friend ! he’s no friend of mine.”

“But didn’t you see him?”

“No.”

They reached college again between ten and
eleven, and parted, each to his own rooms.

To his surprise, Tom found a candle burning
on his table. Round the candle was tied a piece
of string, at the end of which hung a note.
Whoever had put it there had clearly been anx-
ious that he should in no case miss it when he
came in. He took it up, and saw that it was in
Hardy’s hand. He paused, and trembled as he
stood. Then with an effort he broke the seal
and read :

“ I must speak once more. To-morrow it
may be too late. If you go to Abingdon Fair

with her in the company of Drysdale and his
mistress, or, I believe, in any company, you will
return a scoundrel, and she — ; in the name of
the honor of your mother and sister, in the name
of God, I warn you. May He help you through
it. John Hardy.”

Here we will drop the curtain for the next
hour. At the end of that time, Tom staggered
out of his room, down the staircase, across the
quadrangle, up Drysdale’s staircase. He paused
at the door to gather some strength, ran his
hands through his hair, and arranged his coat ;
notwithstanding, when he entered, Drysdale
started to his feet, upsetting Jack from his com-
fortable coil on the sofa.

“ Why, Brown, you’re ill ; have some bran-
dy,” he said, and went to his cupboard for the
bottle.

Tom leaned his arm on the fire-jflace ; his
head on it. The other hand hung down by his
side, and Jack licked it, and he loved the dog as
he felt the caress. Then Drysdale came to his
side with a glass of brandy, which he took and
tossed off as though it had been water. “ Thank
you,” he said, and, as Drysdale went back with
the bottle, reached a large arm-chair and sat
himself down in it.

“ Drysdale, I shan’t go with you to Abingdon
Fair to-morrow.”

“Hallo! what, has the lovely Patty thrown
you over?” said Drysdale, turning from the
cupboard, and resuming his lounge on the sofa.

“No:” he sank back into the chair, on the
arms of which his elbows rested, and put his
hands up before his face, pressing them against
his burning temples. Drysdale looked at him
hard, but said nothing ; and there was a dead
silence of a minute or so, broken only by Tom’s
heavy breathing, which he was laboring in vain
to control.

“ No,” he repeated at last, and the remaining
words came out slowly as if they rvere trying to
steady themselves; “but, by God, Drysdale I
take her with you and that — ” a dead pause.

“ The young lady you met to-night, eh ?”

Tom nodded, but said nothing.

“Well, old fellow,” said Drysdale, “now
you’ve made up your mind, I tell you, I’m dev-
ilish glad of it. I’m no saint, as you know', but
I think it w'ould have been a d — d shame if you
had taken her with us.”

“ Thank you,” said Tom, and pressed his fin-
gers tighter on his forehead ; and he did feel
thankful for the words— though, coming from
such a man, they went into him like coals of
fire.

Again there was a long pause, Tom sitting as
before. .Drysdale got up, and strolled up and
dow'n his room, with his hands in the pockets
of his silk-lined lounging coat, taking at each
turn a steady look at the other. Presently he
stopped, and took his cigar out of his mouth.
“ I say. Brown,” he said, after another minute’s
contemplation of the figure before him, w'hich
bore such an unmistakable impress of wretched-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ness that it made him quite uncomfortable,
“ why don’t you cut that concern ?”

“ How do you mean ?” said Tom.

“Why, that ‘Choughs’ business — I’ll be
hanged if it w'on’t kill you, or make a devil of
you before long, if you go on with it.”

“ It’s not far from that now.”

“ So I see — and I’ll tell you what, you’re not
the sort of fellow to go in for this kind of thing.
You’d better leave it to cold-blooded brutes, like
some we know — I needn’t mention names.”
“I’m awfully wretched, Drysdale ; I’ve been
a brute myself to you and every body of late.”
“Well, I own I don’t like the new side of
yon. Now make up your mind to cut the whole
concern, old fellow,” he said, coming ui? good-
naturedly, and putting his hand on Tom’s shoul-
der ; “ it’s hard to do, I dare say, but you had
better make a plunge and get it over. There’s
wickedness enough going about, without your
helping to shove another one into it.”

Tom groaned as he listened, but he felt that
the man was trying to help him in his own way,
and according to his light, as Drysdale went on
expounding his own curious code of morality.
AVhen it was ended, he shook Drysdale’s hand,
and, wishing him good-night, went back to his
own rooms. The first step upward towards the
light had been made, for he felt thoroughly
humbled before the man on whom he had ex-
pended in his own mind so much patronizing
pity for the last half-year — whom he had been
fancying he was influencing for good.

During the long hours of the night the scenes
of the last few hours, of the last few days, came
back to him and burnt into his soul. The gulf
yawned before him now plain enough, open at
his feet — black, ghastly. He shuddered at it,
wondered if he should even y'Ct fall in, felt
wildly about for strength to stand firm, to re-
trace his steps ; but found it not. He found
not yet the strength he was in search of, but in
the gray morning he wrote a short note:

“I shall not be able to take you to Abingdon
fair to-day. You will not see me, perhaps, for
some days. I am not well. I am very sorry.
Don’t think that I am changed. Don’t be un-
happy, or I don’t know what I may do.” There
was no address and no signature to the note.

When the gates opened he hurried out of the
college, and having left it and a shilling with
Dick (whom he found clearing the yard, and
much astonished at his appearance, and who
promised to deliver it to Patty with his own
hands before eight o’clock), he got back again to
his own rooms, went to bed, worn out in mind
and body, and slept till mid-day.

CHAPTER XVII.

NEW GROUND,

My readers have now been steadily at Oxford
for six months without moving. Most people
find such a spell of the place without a change

quite as much as they care to take ; perhaps,
too, it may do our hero good to let him alone
for a little, that he may have time to look stead-
ily into the pit which he has been so near fall-
ing down, which is still yawning awkwardly in
his path ; moreover, the exigencies of a story-
teller must lead him away from home now and
then. Like the rest of us, his fiimily must
have change of air, or he has to go otf to see a
friend properly married, or a connection buried ;
to wear white or black gloves with or for some
one, carrying such sympathy as he can with
him, that so he may come back from every
journey, however short, with a wider horizon.
Yes ; to come back home after every stage of
life’s journeying with a wider horizon — more in
sympathy with men and nature, knowing ever
more of the righteous and eternal laws which
govern them, and of the righteous and loving
will which is above all, and around all, and be-
neath all — this must be the end and aim of all
of us, or we shall be wandering about blindfold,
and spending time and labor and journey-mon-
ey on that which profiteth nothing. So now I
must ask my readers to forget the old buildings
and quadrangles of the foirest of England’s
cities, the caps and the gowns, the reading and
rowing, for a short space, and take a flight with
me to other scenes and pastiu’es new.

The nights are pleasant in May — short and
pleasant for travel. We leave the ancient city
asleep, and do our flight in the night to save
time. Trust yourselves, then, to the story-tell-
ers’ aerial machine. It is but a rough affair,
I own, rough and humble, unfitted for high or
great flights, with no gilded panels, or dainty
cushions, or C-springs — not that we shall care
about springs, by-the-way, until we alight on
terra firma again ; still, there is much to be
learned in a third-class carriage if we will only
not look, while in it, for cushions, and fine pan-
els, and' forty miles an hour travelling, and will
not be shocked at our fellow-passengers for be-
ing weak in their h’s and smelling of fustian.
Mount in it, then, you who will, after this
warning ; the fares are holiday fares, the tick-
ets return tickets. Take with you nothing but
the poet’s luggage,

“ A smile for Hope, a tear for Pain,

A breath to swell the voice of Praj'er,”

and may you have a pleasant journey, for it is
time that the stoker should be looking to his go-
ing gear.

So now we rise slowly in the moonlight from
St. Ambrose’s quadrangle, and, when we are
clear of the clock-tower, steer away southward,
over Oxford city and all its sleeping wisdom
and folly, over street and past spire, over Christ
Church and the canons’ houses, and the fount-
ain in Tom quad ; over St. Aldate’s and the
river, along which the moonbeams lie in a path-
way of twinkling silver, over the railway sheds
— no, there was then no railway, but only the
quiet fields and footpaths of Hincksey hamlet.
Well, no matter; at any rate, the hills beyond,
and Bagley Wood, were there then, as now ;

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

and over hills and wood we rise, catching the
purr of the night-jar, the thrill of the nightin-
gale, and the first crow of the earliest cock-
pheasant, as he stretches his jewelled wings,
conscious of his strength and his beauty, heed-
less of the fellows of St. John’s, who slumber
within sight of his perch, on whose hospitable
board he shall one day lie, prone on his back,
with fair larded breast turned upward for the
carving-knife, having crowed his last crow. He
knows it not ; what matters it to him ? If he
knew it, could a Bagley Wood cock-pheasant
desire a better ending ?

We pass over the vale beyond ; hall and ham-
let, church and meadow and copse, folded in
mist and shadow below us, each hamlet hold-
ing in its bosom the materials of three-vol-
umed novels by the dozen, if we could pull off
the roofs of the houses and look steadily into
the interiors ; but our destination is farther
yet. The faint white streak behind the dis-
tant Chilterns reminds us that we have no
time for gossip by the way ; May nights are
short, and the sun wdll be up by four. No
matter ; our journey will now be soon over,
for the broad vale is crossed, and the chalk
hills and downs beyond. Larks quiver up by
us, “higher, ever higher,” hastening up to get
a first glimpse of the coming monarch, careless
of food, flooding the fresh air with song.
Steady plodding rooks labor along below us,
and lively starlings rush by on the look-out for
the early worm ; lark and swallow', rook and
starling, each on his appointed round. The
sun arises, and they get them to it ; he is up
now, and these breezy uplands over which we
hang are swimming in the light of horizontal
rays, though the shadows and mists still lie on
the wooded dells w'hich slope away -southward.

Here let us bring to, over the village of
Englebourn, and try to get acquainted with
the outside of the place before the good folk
are about, and we have to go down among them
and their sayings and doings.

The village lies on the southern slopes of
the Berkshire hills, on the opposite side to that
under which our hero w'as born. Another soil
altogether is here, we remark in the first place.
This is no chalk, this high knoll which rises
above — one may almost say hangs over — the
village, crowned with Scotch firs, its sides tuft-
ed with gorse and heather. It is the Hawk’s
Lynch, the favorite resort of Englebourn folk,
who come up for the view, for the air, because
their fathers and mothers came up before them,
because they came up themselves as children —
from an instinct which moves them all in leis-
ure hours and Sunday evenings, when the sun
shines and the birds sing, whether they care
for view or air or not. Something guides all
their feet hitherward ; the children, to play
hide-and-seek and look for nests in the gorse-
bushes ; young men and maidens, to saunter
and look and talk, as they will till the world’s
end — or as long, at any rate, as the Hawk’s
Lynch and Englebourn last — and to cut their

initials, inclosed in a true-lover’s knot, on the
short rabbit’s turf ; steady married couples, to
plod along together consulting on hard times
and growing families ; even old tottering men,
who love to sit at the feet of the firs, with
chins leaning on their sticks, prattling of days
long past, to any one who will listen, or look
silently with dim eyes into the summer air,
feeling, perhaps, in their spirits, after a wider
and more peaceful view which Avill soon open
for them. A common knoll, open to all, up in
the silent air, well away from every-day Engle-
bourn life, w'ith the Hampshire range and the
distant Beacon Hill lying soft on the horizon,
and nothing higher between you and the south-
ern sea — what a blessing the Hawk’s Lynch is
to the village folk, one and all ! May heaven
and a thankless soil long preserve it and them
from an inclosure under the act !

There is much temptation lying about,
though, for the inclosers of the world. The
rough common-land stretches over the whole
of the knoll, and down to its base, and away
along the hills behind, of which the Hawk’s
Lynch is an outlying spur — rough common-
land, broken only by pine woods of a few
acres each in extent, an occasional woodman's
or squatter’s cottage and little patch of attempt-
ed garden. But immediately below, and on
each flank of the spur, and half way up the
slopes, come small farm inclosures, breaking
here and there the belt of woodlands w'hich
generally lies between the rough, wild upland
and the cultivated country below. As you
stand on the knoll you can see the common-
land just below you at its foot narrow into a
mere road, with a border of waste on each
side which runs into Englebourn Street. At
the end of the straggling village stands the
church with its square tower, a lofty gray stone
building, with bits of fine decorated architec-
ture about it, but much of church-w'arden Goth-
ic supervening. The church-yard is large, and
the graves, as you can see plainly even from
this distance, are all crowded on the south-
ern side. The rector’s sheep ai'e feeding in
the northern part nearest to us, and a small
gate at one corner opens into his garden.
The Rectory looks large and comfortable, and
its grounds well cared for and extensive, with
a rookery of elms at the lawn’s end. It is
the chief house of the place, for there is no
resident squire. The principal street contains
a few shops, some dozen, perhaps, in all ;
and several farm-houses lie a little back from
it, with garden in front, and yards and barns
and orchards behind ; and there are two pub-
lic houses. The other dwellings are mere cot-
tages, and very bad ones for the most part,
with floors below the level of the street. Al-
most every house in the village is thatched,
which adds to the beauty, though not to the
comfort, of the place. The rest of the popu-
lation who do not live in the street are dotted
about the neighboring lanes, chiefly towards
the west, on our right as we look down from

TOxM BROWN AT OXFORD.

the Hawk’s Lynch. On this side the country
is more open, and here most of the farmers
live, as we may see by the number of home-
steads. And there is a small brook on that
side, too, which with careful damming is made
to turn a mill, there where you see the clump
of poplars. On our left as we look down, the
country to the east of the village is thickly
wooded ; but we can see that there is a village
green on that side, and a few scattered cot-
tages, the farthest of which stands looking out
like a little white eye from the end of a dense
copse.

Beyond it there is no sign of habitation for
some two miles ; then you can see the tall
chimneys of a great house, and a well-timbered
park round it. The Grange is not in Engle-
bourn parish — happily for that parish, one is
sorry to remark. It must be a very bad squire
who does not do more good than harm by liv-
ing in a country village. But there are very
bad squires, and the owner of the Grange is one
of them. He is however, for the most part, an
absentee, so that we are little concerned with
him, and in fact have only to notice this one of
his bad habits, that he keeps that long belt of
woodlands, which runs into Englebourn parish,
and comes almost up to the village, full of hares
and pheasants. He has only succeeded to the
property some three or four years, and yet the
head of game on the estate, and, above all, in
the -woods, has trebled or quadrupled. Pheas-
ants by hundreds are reared under hens, from
eggs bought in London, and run about the
keepers’ houses as tame as barn-door fowls all the
summer. When the first party comes down for
the first battue early in October, it is often as
much as the beaters can do to persuade these
pampered fowls that they are wild game, whose
duty it is to get up and fly away and be shot at.
However, they soon learn more of the world —
such of them, at least, as are not slain — and
are unmistakable wild birds in a few days.
Then they take to roosting farther from their
old haunts, more in the outskirts of the woods,
and the time comes for others besides the
squire’s guests to take their education in hand,
and teach pheasants at least that they are no
native British birds. These are a wild set, liv-
ing scattered about the wild country— -turf-cut-
ters, broom-makers, squatters, with indefinite
occupations and nameless habits, a race hated
of keepers and constables. These have in-
creased and flourished of late years ; and not-
withstanding the imprisonments and transporta-
tions which deprive them periodically of the
most enterprising members of their community,
one and all give thanks for the day when the
owner of the Grange took to pheasant breeding.
If the demoralization stopped with them, little
harm might come of it, as they would steal
fowls in the homesteads if there were no pheas-
ants in the woods — which latter are less dan-
gerous to get, and worth more when gotten.
But, unhappily, this method of earning a liveli-
hood has strong attractions, and is catching ;

and the cases of farm laborers who get into
trouble about game are more frequent, season
by season, in the neighboring parishes, and En-
glebourn is no better than the rest. And the
men are not likely to be much discouraged from
these practices, or taught better by the farmers ;
for if there is one thing more than another that
drives that sturdy set of men, the Englebourn
yeomen, into a frenzy, it is talk of the game
in the Grange covers. Not that they dislike
sport; they like it too well, and, moreover,
have been used to their fair share of it. For
the late squire left the game entirely in their
hands. “You know best how much game
your land will carry without serious damage to
the crops,” he used to say. “ I like to show my
friends a fair day’s sport when they are with me,
and to have enough game to supply the house
and make a few presents. Beyond that it is no
affair of mine. You can course whenever you
like ; and let me know when you want a day’s
shooting, and you shall have it.” Under this
system the yeomen became keen sportsmen ;
they and all their laborers took an interest in
preserving, and the whole district would have
risen on a poacher. The keeper’s place be-
came a sinecure, and the squire had as much
game as he Avanted without expense, and was,
moreover, the most popular man in the county.
Even after the new man came, and all was
changed, the mere revocation of their sporting
liberties and the increase of game, unpopular as
these things were, would not alone have made
the farmers so bitter, and have raised that sense
of outraged justice in them. But with these
changes came in a custom new in the country —
the custom of selling the game. At first the re-
port was not believed ; but soon it became notori-
ous that no head of game from the Grange estates
Avas ever given aAvay; that not only did the ten-
ants never get a brace of birds or a hare, or the
laborers a rabbit, but not one of the gentlemen
who helped to kill the game ever found any of the
bag in his dog-cart after the day’s shooting. Nay,
so shameless had the system become, and so high-
ly was the art of turning the game to account
cultivated at the Grange, that the keepers sold
powder and shot to any of the guests Avho had
emptied their own belts or flasks, at something
over the market retail price. The light cart
drove to the market-toAvn tAvice a Aveek in the
season, loaded heavily Avith game, but more
heavily Avith the hatred and scorn of the farm-
ers ; and if deep and bitter curses could break
patent axles or necks, the neAV squire and his
game -cart would not long haA'e vexed the
country-side. As it Avas, not a man but his
OAvn tenants would salute him in the market-
place ; and these repaid themselves for the un-
Avilling courtesy by bitter reflections on a squire
who was mean enough to pay his butcher’s and
poulterer’s bill out of their pockets.

Alas ! that the manly instinct of sport AA'hich
is so strong in all of us Englishmen — Avhich
sends Oswell’s single-handed against the might-
iest beasts that Avalk the earth, and takes the

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

poor cockney journeyman out a ten-miles’ walk
almost before daylight on the rare summer
holiday mornings, to angle with rude tackle in
reservoir or canal — should be dragged through
such mire as this in many an English shire
in our day ! If English landlords want to go
on shooting game much longer, they must give
up selling it. For if selling game becomes the
rule, and not the exception (as it seems likely
to do before long), good-bye to sport in Eng-
land. Every man who loves his country more
than his pleasures or his pocket — and, thank
God, that includes the great majority of us yet,
however much we may delight in gun and rod,
let any demagogue in the land say what he
pleases — will cry, “Down with it!” and lend a
hand to put it down forever.

But, to return to our perch on the Hawk’s
Lynch above Englebourn village. The rector
is the fourth of his race who bolds the family
living — a kind, easy-going, gentlemanly old
man, a Doctor of Divinity, as becomes his posi-
tion, though he only went into orders because
there was the living ready for him. In his day
he had been a good magistrate and neighbor,
living with and much in the same way as the
squires round about. But his contemporaries
had dropped off one by one ; his own health
had long been failing ; his wife was dead ; and-
the young generation did not seek him. His
work and the parish had no real hold on him;
so he had nothing to fall back on, and had be-
come a confirmed invalid, seldom leaving the
house and garden, even to go to church, and
thinking more of his dinner and his health than
of all other things in earth or heaven.

The only child who remained at home with
him was a daughter, a girl of nineteen or there-
abouts, whose acquaintance we shall make pres-
ently, and who was doing all that a good heart
and sound head prompted in nursing an old
hypochondriac, and filling his place in the par-
ish. But though the old man was weak and
selfish, he was kind in his way, and ready to
give freely or to do any thing which his daugh-
ter suggested for the good of his jjeople, provided
the trouble were taken off liis shoulders. In
the year before our tale opens, he had allowed
some thirty acres of his glebe to be parcelled out
in allotments among the poor; and his daugh-
ter spent almost what she pleased in clothing-
clubs, and sick-clubs, and the school, without a
w'ord from him. Whenever he did remon-
strate, she managed to get what she wanted out
of the house-money or her own allowance.

We must make acquaintance with such other
of the inhabitants as it concerns us to know in
the course of the story ; for it is broad daylight,
and the villagers will be astir directly. Folk
w'ho go to bed before nine, after a hard day’s
work, get into the habit of turning out soon af-
ter the sun calls them. So now, descending from
the Haw'k’s Lynch, we will alight at the east
end of Englebourn, opposite the little white
cottage which looks out at the end of the great
wood, near the village green.

Soon after five on that bright Sunday morn-
ing, Harry Winburn unbolted the door of his
mother’s cottage, and stepped out in his shirt-
sleeves on to the little walk in front, paved witli
pebbles. Perhaps some of my readers will rec-
ognize the name of an old acquaintance, and
wonder how he got here ; so let us explain at
once. Soon after our hero went to school, Har-
ry’s father had died of a fever. He had been a
journeyman blacksmith, and in the receipt, con-
sequently, of rather better w^ages than generally
fall to the lot of the peasantry, but not enougli
to leave much of a margin over current expen-
diture. Moreover, the Winburns had always
been open-handed with whatever money they
had ; so that all he left for his widow and child
of worldly goods was their “ few sticks ” of fur-
niture, £5 in the savings bank, and the money
from his burial-club, which was not more than
enough to give him a creditable funeral — that
object of honorable ambition to all the independ-
ent poor. He left, however, another inherit-
ance to them, which is a price above rubies,
neither shall silver be named in comparison
thereof— the inheritance of an honest name, of
which his widow was proud, and which was not
likely to suffer in her hands.

After the funeral she removed to Englebourn,
her own native village, and kept her old father’s
house till his death. He was one of the wood-
men to the Grange, and lived in the cottage at
the corner of the wood in which his work lay.
When he, too, died, hard times came on Widow
Winburn. The steward allowed her to keep on
the cottage. The rent was a sore burden to
her, but she would sooner have starved than
leave it. Parish relief was out of the question
for her father’s child and her husband’s widow ;
so she turned her hand to every odd job which
offered, and went to work in the fields when
nothing else could be had. Whenever there
was sickness in the place, she was an untiring
nurse ; and at one time, for some nine months,
she took the ofBce of postman, and walked daily
some nine miles through a severe winter. The
fatigue and exposure had broken down her
health, and made her an old woman before her
time. At last, in a lucky hour, the Doctor came
to hear of her praiseworthy struggles, and gave
her the rectory washing, which had made her
life a comparatively easy one again.

During all this time her poor neighbors had
stood by her as the poor do stand by one another,
helping her in numberless small ways, so that
she had been able to realize the great object of
her life, and keep Harry at school till he was
nearly fourteen. By this time he had learned
all that the village pedagogue could teach, and
had in fact become an object of mingled pride
and jealousy to that worthy man, who had his
misgivings lest Harry’s fame as a scholar should
eclipse his own before many years were over.

Mrs. Winburn’s character was so good, that
no sooner wms her son ready for a place than a
place was ready for him ; he stepped at once
into the dignity of carter’s boy, and his earn-'

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ings, when added to his mother’s, made them
comfortable enough. Of course she was wrap-
ped up in him, and believed there was no such
boy in the parish. And indeed she was nearer the
truth than most mothers, for he soon grew into
a famous specimen of a country-man ; tall and
lithe, full of nervous strength, and not yet bowed
down or stiffened by the constant toil of a la-
borer’s daily life. In these matters, however,
he had rivals in the village ; but in intellectual
accomplishments he was unrivalled. He was
full of learning according to the village standard,
could write and cipher well, was fond of reading
such books as came in his way, and spoke his
native English almost without an accent. He
is one-and-twenty at the time when our story
takes him up, a thoroughly skilled laborer, the
best hedger and ditcher in the parish ; and, when
his blood is up, he can shear twenty sheep in a
day without razing the skin, or mow for sixteen
hours at a stretch, with rests of half an hour for
meals twice in the day.

Harry shaded his eyes with his hand for a
minute as he stood outside the cottage drinking
in the fresh pure air, laden with the scent of the
honeysuckle which he had trained over the
porch, and listening to the chorus of linnets and
finches from the copse at the back of the house ;
and then set about the household duties, which
he always made it a point of honor to attend to
himself on Sundays. First he unshuttered the
little lattice-window of the room on the ground-
floor, a simple operation enough, for the shutter
was a mere w-ooden flap, which \vas closed over
the window at night, and bolted with a wooden
bolt on the outside, and thrown back against
the wall in the day-time. Any one who would
could have opened it at any moment of the
night ; but the poor sleep sound without bolts.
Then he took the one old bucket of the estab-
lishment, and strode away to the well on the
village green, and filled it with clear cold wa-
ter, doing the same kind office for the vessels
of two or three rosy little damsels and boys, of
ages varying from ten to fourteen, who were
already astir, and to whom the winding up of
the parish chain and bucket would have been a
work of difficulty. Returning to the cottage he
proceeded to fill his mother’s kettle and sweep
the hearth, strike a light, and make up the fire
with a fagot from the little stack in the cor-
ner of the garden. Then he hauled the three-
legged round table before the fire, and dusted it
carefully over, and laid out the black japan tea-
tray with two delf cups and saucers of gorgeous
pattern, and diminutive plates to match, and
placed the sugar and slop basins, the big loaf,
and small piece of salt butter, in their accus-
tomed places, and the little black tea-pot on the
hob to get properly warm. There was little
more to be done iu-doors, for the furniture was
scanty enough ; but every thing in turn received
its fair share of attention, and the little room
with its sunken tiled floor and yellow-washed
walls, looked cheerful and homely. Then Har-
ry turned his attention to the shed of his own

contriving, whioh stood beside the fagot-stack,
and from which expostulatory and plaintive
grunts had been issuing ever since his first ap-
pearance at the door, telling of a faithful and
useful friend who was sharp set on Sunday morn-
ings, and desired his poor breakfast, and to be
dismissed for the day to pick up the rest of his
livelihood with his brethren porkers of the vil-
lage on the green and in the lanes. Harry
served out to the porker the poor mess which
the wash of the cottage and the odds and ends
of the little garden afforded ; which that virtu-
ous animal forthwith began to -discuss with both
fore feet in the trough — by way probably of add-
ing to the flavor — while his master scratched
him gently between the ears and on the back
with a short stick till the repast was concluded.
Then he opened the door of the sty, and the
grateful animal rushed out into the lane, and
away to the green with a joyful squeal and flirt
of his hind quarters in the air ; and Harry, af-
ter picking a bunch of wall-flowers and pansies
and hyacinths, a line of which flowers skirted
the narrow garden walk, and putting them in a
long-necked glass which he took from the man-
tel-piece, proceeded to his morning ablutions,
ample materials for- which remained at the bot-
tom of the family bucket, which he had put
down on a little bench by the side of tlie porch.
These finished, he retired in-doors to shave and
dress himself.

CHAPTER XYIII.

EKGLEBOURX VILLAGE.

Dame Wixegex was not long after her son,
and they sat down together to breakfast in their
best Sunday clothes — she, in plain large white
cap, which covered all but a line of gray hair,
a black stuff gown reaching to neck and wrists,
and small silk neckerchief put on like a shawl ;
a thin, almost gaunt old woman, whom the years
had not used tenderly, and who showed marks
of their usage — but a resolute, high-couraged
soul, who had met hard times in the face, and
could meet them again if need were. She spoke
in broad Berkshire, and was otherwise a home-
ly body, but self-possessed and without a shade
of real vulgarity in her composition.

The widow looked with some anxiety at Har-
ry as he took his seat. Although something of
a rustic dandy, of late he had not been so care-
ful in the matter of dress as usual; but in con-
sequence of her reproaches, on this Sunday there
was nothing to complain of. His black vel-
veteen shooting-coat and cotton-plush waist-
coat, his brown corduroy knee-breeches and
gaiters, sat on him well, and gave the world
assurance of a well-to-do man, for few of the
Englebourn laborers rose above smock-frocks
and fustian trowsers. He wore a blue bird’s-
eye handkerchief round his neck, and his shirt,
though coarse in texture, was as Avhite as the
sun and the best laundress in Englebourn could
manage to bleach it. There was nothing to

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

find fault -with in his dress, therefore, but still
his mother did not feel quite comfortable as she
took stealthy glances at him, Harry was nat-
urally rather a reserved fellow, and did not
make much conversation himself, and his moth-
er felt a little embarrassed on this particular
morning.

It was not, therefore, until Dame Winburn
had finished her first slice of bread-and-butter,
and had sipped the greater part of her second
dish of tea out of her saucer, that she broke si-
lence,

“I minded thy business last night, Harry,
when I wur up at the Rectory about the washin’.
It’s my belief as thou’lt get t’other ’lotment next
quarter-day. The Doctor spoke very kind
about it, and said as how he heer’d as high a
character o’ thee, young as thee bist, as of are’
a man in the parish, and as how he wur set on
lettin’ the lots to thaay as’d do best by ’em ;
only he said as the farmers went agin givin’
more nor an acre to any man as worked for
them, and the Doctor, you see, he don’t like to
go altogether agin the vestry folk.”

“What business is it o’ theirs,” said Harry,
“ so long as they get their own work done ?
There’s scarce one on ’em as hasn’t more land
already nor he can keep as should be, and for all
that they want to snap up every bit as falls va-
cant, so as no poor man shall get it.”

“ ’Tis mostly so with them as has,” said his
mother, with a half-puzzled look; “ Scriptur
says as to them shall be given, and they shall
have more abundant.” Dame Winburn spoke
hesitatingly, and looked doubtfully at Harry, as
a person who has shot with a strange gun, and
knows not what effect the bolt may have. Har-
ry was brought up all standing by this unexpect-
ed quotation of his mother’s ; but, after think-
ing for a few moments while he cut himself a
slice of bread, replied :

“It don’t say as those shall have more that
can’t use what they’ve got already. ’Tis a deal
more like Naboth’s vineyard, for aught as I can
see. But ’tis little odds to me which way it
goes.”

“ How canst talk so, Harry ?” said his moth-
er, reproachfully ; “ thou know’st thou wast set
on it last fall, like a wapse on sugar. Why,
scarce a day past but thou Avast up to the Rec-
tory to see the Doctor about it ; and now thou’rt
like to get th’ lotment thou’lt not go anyst ’un.”

Harry looked out at the open door Avithout
ansAvering. It was quite true that, in the last
autumn, he had been very anxious to get as
large an allotment as he could into his own
hands, and that he had been forever up toAvards
the Rectory, but perhaps not always on the al-
lotment business. He Avas naturally a self-re-
liant, shrewd fellow, and felt that if he could
put his hand on three or four acres of land, he
could soon make himself independent of the
farmers. He kncAV that at harvest-times, and
Avhenever there Avas a pinch for good laborers,
they Avould be glad enough to have him ; Avhile
at other times, Avith a few acres of his OAvn, he

Avould be his own master, and could do much
better for himself. So he had put his name
down first on the Doctor’s list, taken the largest
lot he could get, and Avorked it so Avell, that his
crops, among others, had been a sort of village-
shoAv last harvest-time. Many of the neighbor-
ing allotments stood out in sad contrast to those
of Harry and the more energetic of the peasant-
ry, and lay by the side of these latter, only half
worked and full of Aveeds, and the rent Avas ncA^-
er ready. It aa^s Averse than useless to let mat-
ters go on thus, and the question arose, Avhat
was to be done with the neglected lots. Hariy,
and all the men like him, applied at once for
them ; and their eagerness to get them had
roused some natural jealousy among the farm-
ers, Avho began to foresee that the new system
might shortly leave them Avith none but the
Avorst laborers. So the vestry had pressed on
the Doctor, as Dame Winburn said, not to let
any man have more than an acre, or an acre
and a half ; and the Avell-meaning, easy-going,
invalid old man couldn’t make up his mind Avhat
to do. So here Avas May come again, and the
neglected lots were still in the nominal occupa-
tion of the idlers. The Doctor got no rent, and
Avas annoyed at the partial failure of a scheme
Avhich he had not indeed originated, but for
which he had taken much credit to himself.
The negligent occupiers grumbled that they Avere
not allowed a draAvback for manure, and that
no pig-sties w^ere put up for them. “’Tavus
allers understood so,” they maintained, “and
they’d never ha’ took to the lots but for that.”
The good men grumbled that it AA'ould be too
late noAv for them to do more than clean the lots
of weeds this year. The farmers grumbled tliat
it Avas always understood no man should have
more than one lot. The poor rector had led his
flock into a miry place Avith a A^engeance. Peo-
ple Avho can not make up their minds breed
trouble in other places besides country villages.
However quiet and out-of-the-Avay the place may
be, there is always some quasi public topic Avhich
stands, to the rural Englishman, in the place of
treaty, or budget, or reform bill. So the great
allotment question, for the time, Avas that Avhich
exercised the minds of the inhabitants of Engle-
bourn ; and until lately no one had taken a
keener interest in it than Harry Winburn. But
that interest had noAvmuch abated, and so Har-
ry looked through the cottage door, instead of
ansAvering his mother.

“ ’Tis my belief as you med amost hev it for
the axin’,” Dame Winburn began again, AAdien
she found that he Avould not re-open the sub-
ject himself. “ The young missus said as much
to me herself last night. Ah ! to be sure, things
’d go better if she had the guidin’ on ’em.”

“I’m not going after it any more, mother.
We can keep the bits o’ sticks here together
Avithout it Avhile you be alive ; and if any thing
Avas to happen to you, I don’t think I should
stay in these parts. But it don’t matter Avhat
becomes o’ me; I can earn a livelihood any-
Avhere.”

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

Dame Winbiirn paused a moment before an-
swering, to subdue her vexation, and then said,
“ How can ’ee let hankerin’ arter a lass take the
heart out o’ thee so Hold up thy head, and act
a bit measterful. The more thou makest o’ thy-
self, the more like thou art to win.”

“Did "you hear aught of her, mother, last
night?” replied Harry, taking advantage of this
ungracious opening to speak of the subject which
was uppermost in his mind.

“I heer’d she wur goin’ on well,” said his
mother.

“No likelihood of her cornin’ home ?”

“ Not as I could make out. Why, she hevn’t
been gone not four months. Now, do ee’ pluck
up a bit, Harry, and be more like thyself.”

“Why, mother. I’ve not missed a day’s work
since Christmas ; so there ain’t much to find
fault with.”

“Nay, Harry, ’tisn’t thy work. Thou wert
always good at thy work, praise God ! Thou’rt
thy father’s own son for that. But thou dostn’t
keep about like, and take thy place wi’ the lave
on ’em, since Christmas. Thou look’st hagged
at times, and folk’ll see’t, and talk about thee
afore long.”

“Let ’em talk. I mind their talk no more
than last year’s wind,” said Harry, abruptly,

“But thy old mother does,” she said, looking
at him with eyes full of pride and love ; and so
Harry, who was a right good son, began to in-
quire what it was which was specially weighing
on his mother’s mind, determined to do any
thing In reason to replace heron the little harm-
less social pinnacle from which she was wont to
look down on all the other mothers and sons of
the parish. He soon found out that her pres-
ent grievance arose from his having neglected
his place as ringer of the heavy bell in the vil-
lage peal on the two preceding Sundays; and,
as this post was in some sort the corresponding
one to stroke of the boat at Oxford, her anxiety
was reasonable enough. So Harry promised to
go to ringing in good time that morning, and
then set about little odds and ends of jobs till it
would be time to start. Dame Winburn went
toiler cooking and other household duties, which
were pretty well got under when her son took
his hat and started for the belfry. She stood at
the door \yith a half-peeled potato in one hand,
shading her eyes with the other, as she watched
him striding along the raised foot-path under
the elms, when the sound of light footsteps and
pleasant voices coming up from the other direc-
tion made her turn round and drop a courtesy
as the rector’s daughter and another young lady
stopped at her door.

“ Good-morning, Betty,” said the former ;
“here’s a bright Sunday morning at last, isn’t
it?”

“’Tis indeed, miss; but where hev’ee been to?”

“ Oh, we’ve only been for a little walk before
school-time. This is my cousin, Betty. She
hasn’t been at Englebourn since she was quite
a child ; so I’ve been taking her to the Hawk’s
Lynch to see our view.”

“And you can’t think how I have enjoyed it,”
said her cousin ; “ it is so still and beautiful.”

“I’ve heer’cd say as there ain't no such a
place for thretty mile round,” said Betty, proud-
ly. “But do’ee come in, tho’ and sit’ee down
a bit,” she added, bustling inside her door, and
beginning to rub down a chair with her apron ;
“ ’tis a smart step for gentlefolk to walk afore
church.” Betty’s notions of the walking pow-
ers of gentlefolk were very limited.

“No, thank you, we must be getting on,”
said Miss Winter ; “but how lovely your flow-
ers are! Look, Mary, did you ever see such
double pansies ? We’ve nothing like them at
the Rectory.”

“Do’ee take some,” said Betty, emerging
again, and beginning to pluck a handful of her
finest flowers ; “ ’tis all our Harry’s doing ; he’s
mazing partickler about seeds.”

“ He seems to make every thing thrive, Bet-
ty. There, that’s plenty, thank you. We won’t
take many, for fear they should fade before
church is over.”

“ Oh, dwont’ee be afeared — there’s plenty
more ; and you be as welcom’ as the day.”

Betty never said a truer word ; she was one of
the real open-handed sort, who are found most-
ly among those w'ho have the least to give.
They or any one else were welcome to the best
she had.

So the young ladies took the flowers, thanked
her again, and passed on towards the Sunday-
school.

The rector’s daughter might have been a year
or so older than her companion : she looked
more. Her position in the village had been
one of much anxiety, and she was fast getting
an old head on young shoulders. The other
young lady was a slip of a girl just coming out ;
in fact, this was the first visit which she had
ever paid out of leading-strings. She had lived
in a happy home, where she had always been
trusted and loved, and perhaps a thought too
much petted.

There are are some natures which attract pet-
ting ; you can’t help doing your best to spoil
them in this way, and it is satisfactory, there-
fore, to. know (as the fact is) that they are just
the ones which can not be so spoilt.

Miss Mary was one of these. Trustful, for
she had never been tricked ; fearless, for she had
never been cowed ; pure and bright as the En-
glebourn brook at fifty yards from its parent
spring in the chalk, for she had a pure and bright
nature, and had come in contact as yet with
nothing which could soil or cast a shadow.
What wonder that her life gave forth light and
music as it glided on, and that every one who
knew her was eager to have her with them, to
warm themselves in the light and rejoice in the
music !

Besides all her other attraetions, or in conse-
quence of them, for any thing I know, she was
one of the merriest young women in the world,
always ready to bubble over and break out into
clear laughter on the slightest provocation. And

TOM BEOWN AT OXPORD.

provocation had not been wanting during the
last two days which she had spent with her cous-
in. As usual she had brought sunshine with
her, and the old Doctor had half-forgotten his
numerous complaints and grievances for the
time. So the cloud which generally hung over
tlie house had been partially lifted, and Mary,
knowing and suspecting nothing of the dark side
of life at Englebourn Rectory, rallied her cousin
on her gravity, and laughed till she cried at the
queer ways and talk of the people about the
.place.

As soon as they were out of hearing of Dame
Winburn, Mary began :

‘ ‘Well, Katie, I can’t say that you have mend-
ed your case at all.”

“ Surely you can’t deny that there is a great
deal of character in Betty’s face,” said Miss
Winter.

“Oh, plenty of character: all jmur people,
as soon as they begin to stiffen a little and get
wrinkles, seem to be full of character, and I
enjoy it much more than beauty; but we were
talking about beauty, you know.”

“Betty’s son is the handsomest young man
in the parish,” said Miss Winter ; “ and I must
say I don’t think you could find a better-looking
one anywhere.”

“ Then I can’t have seen him.”

“ Indeed you have ; I pointed him out to you
at the post-office yesterday. Don’t you remem-
ber ? he was waiting for a letter.”

“ Oh yes ! now I remember. Well, he was
better than most. But the faces of your young
people in general are not interesting — I don’t
mean the children, but the young men and
women ; and they are awkward and clownish in
their manners, without the quaintness of the
elder generation, who are the funniest old dears
in the world.”

“They will all be quaint enough as they
get older. You must remember the sort of life
they lead. They get their notions very slowly,
and they must have notions in their heads be-
fore they can show them on their faces.”

“ Well, your Betty’s son looked as if he had
a notion of hanging himself yesterday.”

“ It’s no laughing matter, Mary. I hear he
is desperately in love.”

“Boor fellow! that makes a difference, of
course. I hope he won’t carry out his notion.
Who is it, do you know ? Do tell me all about
it.”

“Our gardeneris daughter, I believe. Of
course, I never meddle with these matters ; but
one can’t help hearing the servants’ gossip. I
think it likely to be true, for he was about our
premises at all sorts of times until lately, and I
never see him now that she is away.”

“Is she pretty?” said Mary, who was get-
ting interested.

“ Yes, she is our belle. In fact, they are
the two beauties of the parish.”

“ Fancy that cross-grained old Simon having
a pretty daughter. Oh, Katie, look here I who
is this figure of fun ?”

The figure of fun was a middle-aged man of
small stature and very bandy-legged, dressed
in a blue coat and brass buttons, and carrying
a great bass-viol bigger than himself in a rough
baize cover. He came out of a footpath into
the road just before them, and, on seeing them,
touched his hat to Miss Winter, and then fidget-
ed along with his load, and jerked his head in
a deprecatory manner away from them as he
walked on, with the sort of look and action
which a favorite terrier uses when his master
holds out a lighted cigar to his nose. He was
the village tailor and constable, also the princi-
pal performer in the church-music which obtain-
ed in Englebourn. In the latter capacity he
had of late come into collision with Miss Win-
ter.

For this was another of the questions which
divided the parish — the great church-music
question. From time immemorial, at least ever
since the gallery at the west end had been built,
the village psalmody had been in the hands of
the occupiers of that Protestant structure. In
the middle of the front row sat the musicians,
three in number, who played respectively a
bass-viol, a fiddle, and a clarionet. On one
side of them were two or three young women,
who sang treble — shrill, ear-piercing treble —
with a strong nasal Berkshire drawl in it. On
the other side of the musicians sat the black-
smith, the ■wheelwright, and other tradesmen
of the place. Tradesmen means in that part
of the country what we mean by artisan, and
these were naturally allied with the laborers,
and consorted with them. So far as church-
going was concerned, they formed a sort of in-
dependent opposition, sitting in the gallery in-
stead of in the nave, where the farmers and the
two or three prineipal shop-keepers — the great
landed and commercial interests — regularly sat
and slept, and where the two publicans occupied
pews, but seldom made even the pretense of
worshipping.

The rest of the gallery was filled by the able-
bodied male peasantry. The old worn-out men
generally sat below in the free seats ; the wom-
en also, and some few boys. But the hearts of
these latter were in the gallery — a seat on the
back benches of which was a sign that they had
indued the togo. virilis, and were thenceforth
free from maternal and pastoral tutelage in the
matter of church-going. The gallery thus con-
stituted had gradually usurped the psalmody as
their particular and special portion of the serv-
ice : they left the clerk and the school children,
aided by such of the aristocracy below as cared
to join, to do the responses ; but, when singing
time came, they reigned supreme. The slate
on which the Psalms were announced was hung
out from before the centre of the gallery, and
the clerk, leaving his place under the reading-
desk, marched up there to give them out. He
took this method of preserving his constitution-
al connection with the singing, knowing that
otherwise he could not have maintained the
rightful position of his ofiice in this matter. So

TO:\r BKOWN AT OXFORD.

matters had stood until shortly before the time
of our story.

Tiie present curate, however, backed by Miss
Winter, had tried a reform. He was a quiet
man, with a wife and several children, and
small means. He had served in the diocese
ever since he had been ordained, in a hum-
drum sort of way, going where he was sent for,
and performing his routine duties reasonably
well, but without showing any great aptitude
for his work. He had little interest, and had
almost given up expecting promotion, which he
certainly had done nothing particular to merit.
But there was one point on which he was al-
w'ays ready to go out of his way and take a
little trouble. He was a good musician, and
had formed choirs at all his former curacies.

Soon after his arrival, therefore, he, in con-
cert with Miss Winter, had begun to train the
children in church-music. A small organ which
had stood in a passage in the Rectory for many'
years had been repaired, and appeared first at
the school-room, and at length under the gal-
lery of the church ; and it was announced one
week to the party in possession, that, on the
next Sunday, the constituted authorities would
take the church-music into their own hands.
Then arose a strife, the end of which had near-
ly been to send the gallery off in a body, head-
ed by the offended bass-viol, to the small red-
brick little Bethel at the other end of the vil-
lage. Fortunately the curate had too much
good sense to drive matters to extremities, and
so alienate the parish constable, and a large part
of his flock, though he had not tact or energy
enough to bring them round to his own views.
So a compromise was come to ; and the curate’s
choir were allowed to chant the Psalms and
Canticles, which had always been read before,
while the gallery remained triumphant masters
of the regular Psalms.

My readers Avill now understand tvhy Miss
Winter’s salutation to the musical constable
was not so cordial as it was to the other villa-
gers Avhom they had come across previously.

Indeed, Miss Winter, though she acknowl-
edged the constable’s salutation, did not seem
inclined to encourage him to accompany them
and talk his mind out, although he was going
the same way Aviih them; and, instead of
drawing him out, as was her wont in such
cases, Avent on talking herself to her cousin.

The little man Avalked out in the road, evi-
dently in trouble of mind. He did not like to
drop behind or go ahead Avithout some further
remark from Miss Winter, and yet could not
scrcAv up his courage to the point of opening
the conversation himself. So he ambled on
alongside the footpath on Avhich they Avere
Avalking, showing his discomfort by a twist of
his neck every fcAv seconds, and perpetual
shiftings of his bass-viol, and hunching up of
one shoulder.

The couA'ersation of the young ladies under
these circumstances Avas of course forced ; and
Miss Mary, though infinitely delighted at the
7

meeting, soon began to pity their involuntary
companion. She Avas full of the sensitive in-
stinct Avhich the best sort of Avomen have to
such a marvellous extent, and Avhich tells them
at once and infallibly if any one in their com-
pany has even a creased rose-leaf next their
moral skin.

Before they had Avalked a hundred yards she
Avas interceding for the rebellious constable.

“Katie,” she said softly, in French, “do
speak to him. The poor man is frightfully un-
comfortable.”

“It serves him right,” ansAvered Miss Win-
ter, in the same language: “you don’t knoAV
how impertinent he Avas the other day to Mr.
Walker. And he Avon’t giA-e Avay on the least
point, and leads the rest of the old singers, and
makes them as stubborn as himself.”

“ But do look how he is Avinking and jerking
his head at you. You really mustn’t be so
cruel to him, Katie. I shall have to begin
talking to him if you don’t.”

Thus urged, Miss Winter opened the conA^er-
sation by asking after his Avife, and when she,
had ascertained “that his missus Avur pretty
middlin,” made some other commonplace re-
mark, and relapsed into silence. By the help
of Mary, hoAvever, a sort of disjointed dialogue
Avas kept up till they came to the gate Avhich
led up to the school, into Avhich the children
Avere trooping by twos and threes. Here the
ladies turned in, and Avere going up the walk
towards the school door, Avhen the constable
summoned up courage to speak on the matter
Avhich was troubling him, and, resting the bass-
viol carefully on his right foot, called out after
them :

“ Oh, please marm ! Miss Winter!”

“Well,” she said quietly, turning round,
“Avhat do you Avish to say?”

“Why, please marm, I hopes as you don’t
think I be any Avays unked ’bout this here
quire-singin’ as they calls it — I’m sartin you
knows as there ain’t amost nothing I Avouldn’t
do to please ee.”

“Well, you knoAV how to do it very easy,”
she said Avhen he paused. “I don’t ask you
even to give up your music and try to Avork
Avith us, though I think you might have done
that. I only ask you to use some psalms and
tunes Avhich are fit to be used in a church.”

“To be sure us ool. ’Taint we as AA'ants no
neAv-fangled tunes ; them as Ave sings be aal
OAvld ones as ha’ been used in our church ever
since I can mind. But you only choose thaay
as you likes out o’ the book, and Ave be ready
to kep to thaa)".”

“I think Mr. Walker made a selection for
you some Aveeks ago,” said Miss Winter ; “did
not he?”

“’Ees, but ’tis narra mossel o’ use for we to
try his ’goriums and sich like. I hopes you
Avunt be offended Avi’ me, miss, for I be telling
nought but truth.” He spoke louder as they
got nearer to the school door, and, as they Avere
opening it, shouted his last shot after them,

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ ’Tis na good to try thaay tunes o’ his’n, miss.
When ns praises God, us likes to praise un
joyful.”

“There, you hear that, Mary,” said Miss
Winter. “You’ll soon begin to see wliy I
look grave. There never was such a hard
parish to manage. Nobody will do what they
ought. I never can get them to do any thing.
Perhaps we may manage to teach the children
better, that’s my only comfort.”

“ But, Katie dear, what do the poor things
sing? Psalms, I hope.”

“Oh yes, but they choose all the odd ones
on purpose, I believe. Which class -will you
take?”

And so the young ladies settled to their teach-
ing, and the children in her class all fell in love
with Mary before church-time.

The bass-viol proceeded to the church and
did the usual rehearsals, and gossiped with
the sexton, to whom he confided the fact that
the young missus was “ terrible vexed.” The
bells soon began to ring, and Widow Win-
burn’s heart was glad as she listened to the full
peal, and thought to herself that it was her
Harry who was making so much noise in the
world, and speaking to all the neighborhood.
Then the peal ceased as church-time drew
near, and the single bell began, and the con-
gregation came flocking in from all sides.
The farmers, letting their wives and children
enter, gathered round the chief porch and com-
pared notes in a ponderous manner on crops
and markets. The laborers collected near the
door by which the gallery was reached. All
the men of the parish seemed to like standing
about before church, until they had seen the
clergyman safely inside. He came up with
the school children and the young ladies, and
in due course the bell stopped and the service
began. There was a very good congregation
still at Englebourn ; the adult generation had
been bred up in times when every decent per-
son in the parish w'ent to church, and the cus-
tom was still strong, notwithstanding the rec-
tor’s bad example. He scarcely ever came to
church himself in the mornings, though his
wheel-chair might be seen going up and down
on the gravel before his house or on the lawn
on warm days, and this was one of his daugh-
ter’s greatest -troubles.

The little choir of children sang admirably,
led by the school-misti’ess, and Miss Winter and
the curate exchanged approving glances. They
performed the liveliest chant in their collection,
that the opposition might have no cause to com-
plain of their want of joyfulness. And in turn
Miss Winter was in hopes that, out of deference
to her, the usual rule of selection in the gallery
might have been modified. It was with no
small annoyance, therefore, that, after the Lit-
any was over, and the tuning finished, she
heard the clerk give out that they would praise
God by singing part of the ninety-first Psalm.
Mary, who w^as on the tiptoe of expectation as
to what was coming, saw the curate give a slight !

! shrug with his shoulders and lift of his eye-
brows as he left the reading-desk, and in anoth-
er minute it became a painful effort for her to
keep from laughing as she slyly watched her
cousin’s face while the gallery sang with vigor
worthy of any cause or occasion :

“ On the oW lion He shall go,

The adder fell and long ;

On the young lion tread also,

With dragons stout and strong.”

The treble took up the last line, and repeated :
“With dragons stout and strong;”
and then the whole strength of the gallery
chorused again :

“ With dra-f/ons stout and strong,”
and the bass-viol seemed to her to prcllong the
notes and to gloat over them as he droned them
out, looking triumphantly at the distant curate.
Mary Avas thankful to kneel down to compose
her face. The first trial was the sev’ere one,
and she got through the second psalm much
better ; and by the time Mr. Walker had plunged
fairly into his sermon she was a model of pro-
priety and sedateness again. But it was to bo
a Sunday of adventures. The sermon had
scarcely begun when there was a stir down by
the door at the west end, and people began to
look round and whisper. Presently a man
came softly up and said something to the clerk ;
the clerk jumped up and whispered to the cu-
rate, who paused for a moment with a puzzled
look, and, instead of finishing his sentence, said
in a loud voice, “Farmer Groves’s house is on
fire !”

The curate probably anticipated the effect of
his words ; in a minute he was the only person
left in the church except the clerk and one or
two very infirm old folk. He shut up and
pocketed his sermon, and followed his flock.

It proved luckily to be only Farmer Groves’s
chimney, and not his house, Avhich was on fire.
The farm-house was only two fields from the
village, and the congregation rushed across
there, Harry Winburn and two or three of the
most active young men and boys leading. As
they entered the yard the flames were rushing
out of the chimney, and any moment the thatch
might take fire. Here was the the real danger.
A ladder had just been reared against the chiin,
ney, and, Avhile a frightened farm-girl and a
carter-boy held it at the bottom, a man was go-
ing up it carrying a bucket of Avater. It shook
Avith his weight, and the top Avas slipping grad-
ually along the face of the chimney, and in
another moment Avould rest against nothing.
Harry and his companions saw the danger at a
glance, and shouted to the man to stand still
till they could get to the ladder. They rushed
towards him Avith the rush which men can only
make under strong excitement ; but as the
foremost of them caught a spoke with one hand,
and, before he could steady it, the top slipped
clear of the chimney, and ladder, man, and
bucket came heavily to the ground.

Then came a scene of beAvildering confusion,

! as Avomen and children trooped into the yard

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

— “ Who was it ?” “ Was he dead ?” “ The

fire was catching the thatch.” “The stables
were on fire.” “Who done it?” — all sorts of
cries and all sorts of acts except the right ones.
Fortunately, two or three of the men, with heads
on their shoulders, soon organized a line for
handing buckets ; the flue was stopped below,
and Harry Winburn, standing nearly at the top
of the ladder, which was now safely planted,
was deluging the thatch round the chimney
from the buckets handed up to him. In a
few minutes he was able to pour water down
the chimney itself, and soon afterwards the
whole affair was at an end. The farmer’s din-
ner w’as spoilt, but otherwise no damage had
been done, except to the clothes of the foremost
men ; and the only accident was that first fall
from the ladder.

The man had been carried out of the yard
while the fire was still burning ; so that it was
hardly known who it was. Now in answer to
their inquiries, it proved to be old Simon, the
rector’s gardener and head man, who had seen
the fire, and sent the news to the church, while
he himself went to the spot, with such result as
we have seen.

The surgeon had not yet seen him. Some
declared he was dead ; others, that he was sit-
ting up at home, and quite well. Little by lit-
tle the crowd dispei'sed to Sunday’s dinners ;
and, when they met again before the afternoon’s
service, it Avas ascertained that Simon was cer-
tainly not dead, but all else Avas still nothing
more than rumor. Public opinion Avas much
divided, some holding that it would go hard
Avith a man of his age and heft ; but the com-
mon belief seemed to be tliat he was of that
sort “as’d take a deal o’ killin’,” and that he
Avould be none the worse for such a fall as that.

The tAvo young ladies had been much shocked
at the accident, and had accompanied the hur-
dle on Avhich old Simon Avas carried to his cot-
tage door. After afternoon service they went
round by the cottage to inquire. The two girls
knocked at the door, which was opened by his
Avife, Avho dropped a courtesy and smoothed
down her Sunday apron when she found Avho
who Avere her visitors.

She seemed at first a little unAvilling to let
them in ; but Miss Winter pressed so kindly to
see her husband, and Mary made such sym-
pathizing eyes at her, that the old Avoman gave
in and conducted them through the front room
into that beyond, Avhere the patient lay.

“I hope as you’ll excuse it, miss, for I knoAvs
the place do smell terrible bad of baccer ; only
my old man he said as hoAv — ”

“ Oh, never mind, Ave don’t care at all about
the smell. Poor Simon ! I’m sure if it does
him any good, or soothes the pain, I shall be
glad to buy him some tobacco myself.”

The old man was lying on the bed Avith his
coat and boots off, and a Avorsted night-cap of
his Avife’s knitting pulled on to his head. She
had tried hard to get him to go to bed at once
and take some physic, and his present costume

and position Avas the compromise. His back
was turned to them as they entered, and he Avas
evidently in pain, for he dreAV his breath heavi-
ly and Avith difficulty, and gave a sort of groan
at every respiration. He did not seem to no-
tice their entrance ; so his Avife touched him on
the shoulder, and said, “ Simon, here’s the
young ladies eome to see Iioav you be.”

Simon turned himself round, and Avinced and
groaned as he pulled off his night-cap in token
of respect.

“We didn’t like to go home Avithout coming
to see hoAV you Avere, Simon. Has the doctor
been ?”

“ Oh yes, thank’ee, miss. He’A'e a been and
feel’d un all over, and listened at the chest on
un,” said his Avife.

“And Avhat did he say?”

“ He zem’d to zay as there Avur no bAvones
bruk — ugh ! ugh !” put in Simon, Avho spoke his
native tongue AA'ith a buzz, imported from far-
ther Avest, “but a couldn’t zay Avether or no
there Avarn’t som infarnal injury — ”

“Etarnal, Simon, etarnal !” interrupted his
Avife; “hoAV canst use such Avords afore the
young ladies ?”

“I tell’ee, Avife, as ’tAvur infarnal — ugh I
ugh !” retorted the gardener.

“Internal injury?” suggested Miss Winter.
“ I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“ Zummit inside o’ me like, as Avur got out
o’ place,” explained Simon; “ and I thenks a
must be near about the mark, for I feels mor-
tal bad here when I tries to move and he
put his hand on his side. “ HoAvs’m’ever, as
there’s no boAvnes bruk, I hopes to be about to-
morrow mornin’, please the Loi'd — ugh ! ugh !”
“ You mustn’t think of it, Simon,” said
Miss Winter. “You must be quite quiet for
a week at least, till you get rid of this pain.”

“ So I tells un. Miss Winter,” put in the
Avife. “You hear Avhat the young missus says,
Simon ?”

“And Avut’s to happen to Tiny?” said the
contumacious Simon, scornfully. “ Her’ll cast
her calf, and me not by. Her’s calving may
be this minut. Tiny’s time wur up, miss,
tAvo days back, and her’s never no gurt Avhile
arter her time.”

“She Avill do very well, I dare say,” said
Miss Winter. “ One of the men can look after
her.”

The notion of any one else attending Tiny
in her interesting situation seemed to excite Si-
mon beyond bearing, for he raised himself on
one elboAv, and Avas about to make a demonstra-
tion Avith his other hand, Avhcn the pain seized
him again, and he sank back groaning.

“There, you see, Simon, you can’t moA^e
Avithout pain. You must be quiet till you
have seen the doctor again.”

“There’s the red spider out along the south
AA'all — ugh! ugh!” persisted Simon, without
seeming to hear her ; “ and your ncAv g’raniums
a’most coA'ered wi’ blight. I wur a tacklin'
one on ’em just afore you cum in.”

100

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

Following the direction indicated by his
nod, the girls became aware of a plant by his
bedside which he had been fumigating, for his
pipe was leaning against the flower-])Ot in wliich
it stood.

“He wouldn’t lie still nohow, miss,” ex-
plained his wife, “till I went and fetched un
in a pipe and one o’ thaay plants from the
green-house.”

“ It was very thoughtful of you, Simon,” said
Miss Winter; “you know how much I prize
these new plants; but we will manage them;
and you mustn't think of these things now.
You have had a wonderful escape to-day, for a
man of your age. I hope we shall find that
there is nothing much the matter with you after
a few days, but you might have been killed,
you know. You ought to be very thankful to
God that you were not killed in that fall.”

“So I be, miss, werry thankful to un — ugh!
ugh ! and if it plaase the Lord to spare my
life till to-morrow morning — ugh ! ugh! — we’ll
smoke them cussed insects.”

This last retort of the incorrigible Simon on
her cousin’s attempt, as the rector’s daughter,
to improve the occasion, was too much for Miss
Mary, and she slipped out of the room lest she
should bring disgrace on herself by an explo-
sion of laughter. ,^She was joined by her cousin
in another minute, and the two walked together
towards the Rectory.

“ I hope you were not faint, dear, with that
close room, smelling of smoke ?”

“Oh dear, no; to tell you the truth, I was
only afraid of laughing at your quaint old pa-
tient. What a rugged old dear it is ! I hope
he isn’t much hurt.”

“I hope not, indeed; for he is the most
honest, faithful old servant in the world, but
so obstinate. He never will go to church on
Sunday mornings ; and, when I speak to him
about it, he says papa doesn’t go. Which is
very wrong and impertinent of him.”

CHAPTER XIX.

A PROMISE OP FAIRER WEATHER.

All dw'cllers in and about London are,
alas ! too well acquainted with that never-to-be-
enough-hated change which we have to undergo
once, at least, in every spring. As each suc-
ceeding winter wears away, the same thing hap-
pens to us.

For some time we do not trust the fair
lengthening days, and can not believe that the
dirty pair of sparrows who live opposite our
window are really making love and going to
build, notwithstanding all their twittering. But
morning after morning rises fresh and gentle ;
there is no longer any vice in the air; we drop
our over-coats ; we rejoice in tlie green shoots
which the privet hedge is making in the square
garden, and hail the returning tender-pointed
leaves of the plane-trees as friends ; we go out

of our way to walk through Covent Garden
Market to see the ever-brightening show of
flowers from the happy country.

This state of things goes on sometimes for
a few days only, sometimes for weeks, till we
make sure that we are safe for this spring, at
any rate. Don't we wish we may get it !
Sooner or later, but sure — sure as Christmas
bills, or the income tax, or any thing, if there
be any thing, surer than these — comes the
morning when we are suddenly conscious, as
soon as we rise, that there is something the
matter. We do not feel comfortable in our
clothes ; nothing tastes quite as it should at
breakfast; though the day looks bright enough,
there is a fierce dusty taint about it as we look
out through windows which no instinct now
prompts us to throw open, as it has done ev-
ery day for the last month.

But it is only when we open our doors and
issue into the street that the hateful reality
comes right home to us. All moisture, and
softness, and pleasantness has gone clean out of
the air since last night ; we seem to inhale
yards of horsehair instead of satin ; our skins
dry up ; our eyes, and hair, and whiskers, and
clothes are soon filled with loathsome dust, and
our nostrils with the reek of the great city. We
glance at the w'eathercock on the nearest stee-
ple, and see that it points N.E. And so long
as the change lasts, we carry about with us a
feeling of anger and impatience as though we
personally were being ill-treated. We could
have borne with it well enough in November ;
it would have been natural, and all in the day’s
work in March ; but now, when Rotten-Row is
beginning to be crowded, when long lines of
pleasure-vans are leaving town on Monday
mornings for Hampton Court or the poor re-
mains of dear Epping Forest, when the exhibi-
tions are open or about to open, when the relig-
ious public is up, or on its way up, for Ma}'-
meetings, when the Thames is already sending
up faint warnings of what we may expect as
soon as his dirty old life’s blood shall have been
thoroughly warmed up, and the Ship, and Tra-
falgar, and Star and Garter are in full swing at
the antagonist poles of the cockney system, we
do feel that this blight which has come over us
and every thing is an insult, and that while it
lasts, as there is nobody who can be made par-
ticularly responsible for it, we are justified in
going about in general disgust, and ready to
quarrel with any body we may meet on the
smallest pretext.

This sort of east-windy state is perhaps the
best physical analogy for that mental one in
which our hero now found himself. The real
crisis Avas over ; he had managed to pass through
the eye of the storm, and drift for the present at
least into the skirts of it, where he lay rolling
under bare poles, comparatively safe, but with-
out any power as yet to get the ship well in
hand, and make her obey her helm. The storm
might break OA'er him again at any minute, and
would find him almost as helpless as ever.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

101

For he could not follow Drvsdale’s advice at
once, and break off his visits to “The Choughs”
altogether. He went back again after a day or
two, but only for short visits ; he never staid be-
hind now after the other men left the bar, and
avoided interviews with Patty alone as diligent-
ly as he had sought them before. She was puz-
zled at his change of manner, and not being
able to account for it, was piqued, and ready to
revenge herself and pay him out in the hundred
little ways which the least practised of her sex
know how to employ for the discipline of any of
the inferior or trowsered half of the creation.
If she had been really in love with Iiim, it would
have been a different matter ; but she was not.
In the last six weeks she had certainly often had
visions of the pleasures of being a lady and
keeping servants, and riding in a carriage like
the squires’ and rectors’ wives and daughters
about her home. She had a liking, even a sen-
timent for him, which might very well have
grown into something dangerous before long;
but as yet it was not more than skin-deep. Of
late, indeed, she had been much more frighten-
ed than attracted by the conduct of her admirer,
and really felt it a relief, notwithstanding her
pique, when he retired into the elder brother
sort of state. But she would have been more
than woman if she had not resented the change ;
and so very soon the pangs of jealousy were
added to his other troubles. Other men were
beginning to frequent “The Choughs” regular-
ly. Drysdale, besides dividing with Tom the
prestige of being an original discoverer, was by
far the largest customer. St. Cloud came, and
brought Chanter with him, to whom Patty was
actually civil, not because she liked him at all,
but because she saw that it made Tom furious.
Though he could not fix on any one man in
particular, he felt that mankind in general were
gaining on him. In his better moments, in-
deed, he often wished that she would take the
matter into her own hands and throw him over
for good and all ; but keep away from the place
altogether he could not, and often, when he fan-
cied himself on the point of doing it, a pretty
toss of her head or kind look of her eyes
would scatter all his good resolutions to the
four winds.

And so the days dragged on, and. he dragged
on through them ; hot fits of conceit alternating
in him with cold fits of despondency and mawk-
ishness, and discontent with every thing and
every body, which were all the more intolera-
ble from their entire strangeness. Instead of
seeing the bright side of all things, he seem-
ed to be looking at creation through yellow
spectacles, and saw faults and blemishes in all
his acquaintance which had been till now in-
visible.

But the more he was inclined to depreciate
all other men, the more he felt that there was
one to whom he had been grossly unjust. And,
as he recalled all that had passed, he began to
do justice to the man who had not flinched from
warning him and braving him, who he felt had

been watching over him, and trying to guide
him straight, when he had lost all power or will
to keep straight himself.

From this time the dread increased on him
lest any of the other men should find out his
quarrel with Hardy. Their utter ignorance of
it encouraged him in the hope that it might all
pass off like a bad dream. While it remained
a matter between them alone, he felt that all
might come straight, though ho could not think
how. He began to loiter by the entrance of the
passage which led to Hardy’s rooms ; sometimes
he would find something to say to his scout or
bed-maker which took him into the back regions
outside Hardy’s window, glancing at it sideways
as he stood giving his orders. There it was,
wide open, generally — he hardly knew whether
he hoped to catch a glimpse of the owner, but
he did hope that Hardy might hear his voice.
He watched him in chapel and hall furtively,
but constantly, and was always fancying what
he W'as doing and thinking about. Was it as
painful an effort to Hardy, he wondered, as to
him to go on speaking, as if nothing had hap-
pened, when they met at the boats, as they did
now again almost daily (for Diogenes was bent
on training some of the torpids for next year),
and yet never to look one another in the face ;
to live together as usual during part of every
day, and yet to feel all the time that a great wall
had risen between them, more hopelessly divid-
ing them for the time than thousands of miles
of ocean or continent ?

Among other distractions which Tom tried at
this crisis of his life, w'as reading. For three or
four days running, he really worked hard— very
hard, if we were to reckon by the number of
hours he spent in his own rooms over his books
with his oak sported — hard, even though we
should only reckon by results. For, though
scarcely an hour passed that he was not balanc-
ing on the hind legs of his chair with a vacant
look in his eyes, and thinking of any thing but
Greek roots or Latin constructions ; yet on the
whole he managed to get through a good deal,
and one evening, for the first time since his quar-
rel with Hardy, felt a sensation of real comfort
— it hardly amounted to pleasure — as he closed
his Sophocles some hour or so after hall, having
just finished the last of the Greek plays which
he meant to take in for his first examination.
He leaned back in his chair and sat for a few
minutes, letting his thoughts follow their own
bent. They soon took to going wrong, and he
jumped up in fear lest he should be drifting
back into the black stormy sea, in the trough of
which he had been laboring so lately, and which
he felt he was by no means clear of yet. At
first he caught up his cap and gown as though
he were going out. There was a w-ine-party at
one of his acquaintance’s rooms; or he could
go and smoke a cigar in the pool-room, or at
any one of a dozen other places. On second
thoughts, however, he threw his academicals
back on to the sofa, and went to his book-case.
The reading had paid so well that evening that

103

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

he resolved to go on with it. He had no partic-
ular object in selecting one book more than an-
other, and so took down carelessly the first that
came to hand.

It happened to be a volume of Plato, and
opened of its own accord in the “Apology.”
He glanced at a few lines. What a flood of
memories they called up ! This was almost the
last book he had read at school ; and teacher,
and friends, and lofty oak-shelved library stood
out before him at once. Then the blunders
that he himself and others had made rushed
through his mind, and he almost burst into a
laugh as he wheeled his chair round to the win-
dow and began reading where he had opened,
encouraging every thought of the old times when
he first read that marvellous defense, and throw-
ing himself back into them with all his might.
And still, as he read, forgotten words of wise
comment, and strange thoughts of wonder and
longing, came back to him. The great truth
which he had been led to the brink of in those
early days rose in all its awe and all its attract-
iveness before him. He leaned back in his
chair, and gave himself up to his thought ; and
how strangely that thought bore on the struggle
which had been raging in him of late ! how an
answer seemed to be trembling to come out of
it to all the cries, now defiant, now plaintive,
which had gone up out of his heart in this time
of trouble ! For his thought was of that spirit,
distinct from himself, and yet communing with
his inmost soul, always dwelling in him, know-
ing him better than he knew himself, never mis-
leading him, always leading him to light and
truth, of which the old philosopher spoke. “ The
old heathen, Socrates, did actually believe that —
there can be no question about it,” he thought.
“ Has not the testimony of the best men through
these two thousand years borne witness that he
was right — that he did not believe a lie ? That
was what we were told. Surely I don’t mistake ;
Were we not told, too, or did I dream it, that
what was true for him is true for every man —
for me — that there is a spirit dwelling in me,
striving with me, ready to lead me into all truth
if I will submit to his guidance ?

“Aye! submit, submit, thece’s the rub!
Give yourself up to his guidance! Throw up
the reins, and say you’ve made a mess of it.
Well, why not ? Haven’t I made a mess of it ?
Am I fit to hold the reins ?

“ Not I ” — he got up and began walking about
his rooms — “I give it up.

“ Give it up !” he went on presently ; “ yes,
but to whom ? Not to the demon, spirit, what-
ever it was, who took up his abode in the old
Athenian — at least, so he said, and so I believe.
No, no ! Two thousand years and all that they
have seen have not passed over the world to
leave us just where he was left. We want no
demons or spirits. And yet the old heathen
was guided right, and what can a man want
more ? and who ever wanted guidance more
than I now — here — in this room — at this min-
ute ? I give up the reins ; who will take

them?” And so there came on him one of
those seasons when a man’s thoughts can not bo
followed in words. A sense of awe came on
him and over him, and wrapped him round —
awe at a presence of which he was becoming
suddenly conscious, into which he seemed to
have wandered, and yet which he felt must
have been there, around him, in his own heart
and soul, though he knew it not. There was
hope and longing in his heart mingling with
the fear of that presence, but withal the old
reckless and daring feeling which he knew so
well, still bubbling up untamed, untamable it
seemed to him.

The room stifled him now ; so he threw on
his cap and gown, and hurried down into the
quadrangle. It was very quiet ; probably there
were not a dozen men in college. He walked
across to the low dark entrance of the passage
which led to Hardy’s rooms, and there paused.
Was he there by chance, or was he guided
there? Yes, this was the right way for him,
he had no doubt now as to that ; down the dark
passage and into the room he knew so well —
and what then ? He took a short turn or two
before the entrance. How could he be sure
that Hardy was alone? And, if not, to go in
would be worse than useless. If he were alone,
what should he say ? After all, must he go in
there ? was there no way but that ?

The college clock struck a quarter to seven.
It was his usual time for “ The Choughs the
house would be quiet now ; was there not one
looking out for him there who would be grieved
if he did not come? After all, might not that
be his way, for this night at least ? He might
bring pleasure to one human being by going
there at once. That he knew ; what else could
he be sure of?

At this moment he heard Hardy’s door open,
and a voice saying “ Good-night,” and the next
Grey came out of the passage and was passing
close to him.

“Join yourself to him.” The impulse came
so strongly into Tom’s mind this time, that it
was like a voice speaking to him. He yielded
to it, and, stepping to Grey’s side, wished him
good-evening. The other returned his salute
in his shy way, and was hurrying on, but Tom
kept by him.

“ Have you been reading with Hardy ?”

“Yes.”

“How is he? I have not seen any thing
of him for some time.”

“Oh, very well, I think,” said Grey, glanc-
ing sideways at his questioner, and adding, after
a moment, “I have wondered rather not to see
you there of late.”

“ Are you going to your school?” said Tom,
breaking away from the subject.

“Yes, and I am rather late ; I must make
haste on ; good-night.”

“ Will you let me go with you to-night ? It
would be a real kindness. Indeed,” he added,
as he saw how embarrassing his proposal was to
Grey, “I will do whatever you tell me — you

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

103

don’t know how grateful I shall be to you. Do
let me go just for to-night. Try me once.”
Grey hesitated, turned his Iiead sharply once
or twice as they walked on together, and then
said, with something like a sigh ;

“I don’t know. I’m sure. Did you ever
teach in a night-school ?”

“No, but I have taught in the Sunday-school
at home sometimes. Indeed, I will do what-
ever you tell me.”

“Oh! but this is not at all like a Sunday-
school. They are a very rough, wild lot.”
“The rougher the better,” said Tom; “I
shall know howto manage them then.”

“But you must not really be rough with

them. ”

“No, I won’t; I didn’t mean that,” said
Tom hastily, for he saw his mistake at once.
“ I shall take it as a great favor if you will let
me go with you to-night. You won’t repent it,
I’m sure.”

Grey did not seem at all sure of this, but saw
no means of getting rid of his companion, and
so they walked on together and turned down a
long narrow court in the lowest part of the
town. At the doors of the houses, laboring
men, mostly Irish, lounged or stood about, smok-
ing and talking to one another, or to the women
who leaned out of the windows, or passed to and
fro on their various errands of business or pleas-
ure. A group of half-grown lads were playing
at pitch-farthing at the farther end, and all over
the court were scattered children of all ages,
ragged and noisy little creatures most of them,
on whom paternal and maternal admonitions
and cuffs were constantly being expended, and
to all appearances in vain.

At the sight of Grey a shout arose among the
smaller boys, of “ Here’s the teacher !” and they
crowded round him and Tom as they went up the
court. Several of the men gave him a half-surly
half-respectful nod as he passed along, wishing
them good-evening. The rest merely stared at
him and his companion. They stopped at a door
wliteh Grey opened, and led the way into the pas-
sage of an old tumble-down cottage, on the
ground-floor of which were two low rooms which
served for the school-rooms.

A hard-featured, middle-aged woman, who
kept the house, was waiting, and said to Gray :
“Mr. Jones told me to say, sir, he would not
be here to-night, as he has got a bad fever case
— so you was to take only the lower classes, sir,
he said ; and the policeman would be near to
keep out the big boys if you wanted him. Shall
I go and tell him to step round, sir?”

Grey looked embarrassed for a moment, and
then said, “ No, never mind ; you can go and

then, turning to Tom, added : “Jones is the cu-
rate ; he won’t be here to-night ; and some of
the bigger boys are very noisy and troublesome,
and only come to make a noise. However, if
they come we must do our best.”

Meantime, the crowd of small, ragged urchins
had filled the room, and were swarming on to
the benches and squabbling for the copy-books

which were laid out on the thin desks. Grey
set to work to get them into order, and soon the
smallest were drafted off into the inner room
with slates and spelling-books, and the bigger
ones,- some dozen in number, settled to their
writing. Tom seconded him so readily, and
seemed so much at home, that Grey felt quite
relieved.

“ You seem to get on capitally,” he said ; “I
will go into the inner room to the little ones,
and you stay and take these. There are the
class-books when they have done their copies,”
and so went off into the inner room and closed
the door.

Tom set himself to work with a will, and as
he bent over one after another of the pupils, and
guided the small grubby hands which clutched
the inky pens with cramped fingers, and went
spluttering and blotching along the lines of the
copy-books, felt the yellow scales dropping from
his eyes, and more warmth coming back into his
heart than he had known there for many a day.

All went on well inside, notwithstanding a
few small outbreaks between the scholars, but
every now and then mud was thrown against
the window, and noises outside and in the pas-
sage threatened some interruption. At last,
when the writing was finished, the copy-books
cleared away, and the class-books distributed,
the door opened, and two or three big boys of
fifteen or sixteen lounged in, with their hands
in their pockets and their caps on. There was
an insolent look about them which set Tom’s
back up at once ; however, he kept his temper,
made them take their caps off, and, as' they said
they wanted to read with the rest, let them take
their places on the benches.

But now came the tug of war. He could not
keep his eyes on the whole lot at once, and no
sooner did he fix his attention on the stammer-
ing reader for the time being and try to lielp
him than anarchy broke out all around him.
Small stones and shot were thrown about, and
cries arose from the smaller fry ; “ Please, sir,
he’s been and poured some ink down my back
“He’s stole my book, sir;” “He’s gone and
stuck a pin in my leg.” The evil-doers were so
cunning that it was impossible to catch them ;
but, as he was hastily turning in his own mind
what to do, a cry arose, and one of the benches
went suddenly over back\vard on to the floor,
carrying with it its whole freight of boys, except
two of the bigger ones, who were the evident
authors of the mishap.

Tom sprang at the one nearest him, seized
him by the collar, hauled him into the passage,
and sent him out of the street door with a sound
kick ; and then, rushing back, caught hold of the
second, who went down on his back, and clung
round Tom’s legs, shouting for help to his re-
maining companion, and struggling and swear-
ing. It was all the work of a moment ; and
now the door opened, and Grey appeared from
the inner room. Tom left oft' hauling his prize
towards the passage, and felt and looked very
foolish.

104

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“This fellow, and another whom I have turn-
edput, upset that form with all the little boys on
it,” he said, apologetically.

“ It’s a lie, ’twasn’t me,” roared the captive,
to whom Tom administered a sound box on the
ear, while the small boys, rubbing different parts
of their bodies, chorused, “ ’Twas him, teacher,
’twas him,” and heaped further charges of pinch-
ing, pin-sticking, and otlier atrocities on him.

Grey astonished Tom by his firmness. “Don’t
strike him again,” hesaid. “Now, gooutatonce,
or I will send for your father.” The fellow got
up, and, after standing a moment and consider-
ing his chance of successful resistance to physi-
cal force in the person of Tom, and moral in that
of Grey, slun’x out. “You must go too, Mur-
phy,” went on Grey to another of the intruders.

“Oh, your honor, let me bide. I'll be as
quiet as a mouse,” pleaded the Irish boy; and
Tom would have given in, but Grey was unyield-
ing.

“You were turned out last week, and Mr.
Jones said you were not to come back for a
fortnight.”

“ Well, good-night to your honor,” said Mur-
phy, and took himself off.

“The rest may stop,” said Grey. “ You had
better take the inner room now ; I w ill stay
here.”

“ I am very sorry,” said Tom.

“You couldn’t help it; no one can manage
those twm. Murphy is quite different, but I
should have spoiled l)im if I had let him stay
now'.”

The remaining ’.lalf-hour passed off quietly.
Tom retired into the inner room, and took up
Grey’s lesson, Avhicli he had been reading to the
boys from a large Bible with pictures. Out of
consideration for their natural and acquired rest-
lessness, the little fellows, who were all between
eight and eleven years old, were only kept sit-
ting at their pot-hooks and spelling for the first
half-hour or so, and then were allowed to crowd
round the teacher, who read and talked to them,
and showed tliem the pictures. Tom found the
Bible open at the story of the prodigal son, and
read it out to them as they clustered round his
knees. Some of the outside ones fidgeted about
a little, but those close round him listened with
cars, and eyes, and bated breath ; and two little
blue-eyed boys without shoes — their ragged
clothes concealed by long pinafores which their
widow'ed mother had put on clean to send them
to school — leaned against him and looked up in
his face, and his heart rvarmed to the touch and
the look. “Please, teacher, read it again,” they
said w'hen he finished ; so he read it again, and
sighed when Grey came in and lighted a candle
(for it was getting dark) and said it was time for
prayers.

A few collects, and the Lord's Prayer, in
which all the young voices joined, drowning for a
minute the noises from the court outside, finished
the evening’s schooling. The children trooped
out, and Grey went to speak to the woman wlio
kept the house. Tom, left to himself, felt

strangely happy, and, for something to do, took
the snuffers and commenced a crusade against
a large family of bugs, who, taking advantage
of the quiet, came cruising out of a crack in the
othenvise neatly-papered wall. Some dozen
Iiad fallen on his spear when Grey reappeared,
and w’as much horrified at the sight. Fie called
the woman, and told her to have the hole care-
fully fumigated and mended.

“I thought we had killed them all long ago,”
he said ; “ but the place is tumbling down.”

“ It looks w ell enough,” said Tom.

“ Yes, we have it kept as tidy as possible. It
ought to be at least a little better tlian what the
children see at home.” And so they left the
school and court, and walked up to college.

“ Where are you going?” Tom said, as they
entered the gate.

“ To Hardy’s rooms ; will you come ?”

“No, not to-night,” said Tom ; “Iknowthat
you want to be reading; I should only inter-
rupt.”

“ Well, good-night, then,” said Grey, and
went on, leaving Tom standing in the porch.
On the way up from the school he had almost
made up his mind to go to Hardy’s rooms that
night. He longed, and yet feared to do so ;
and, on the whole, was not sorry for an excuse.
Their- first meeting must be alone, and it would
be a very em.barrassing one, for him at any rate.
Grey, he hoped, would tell Hardy of his r isit to
the school, and that would show that he was
coming round, and make the meeting easier
His talk with Grey, too, had removed one great
cause of uneasiness from his mind. It was
now quite clear that he had no suspicion of the
quarrel, and, if Hardy had not told him, no one
else could know of it.

Altogether, he strolled into the quadrangle a
happier and sounder man than he had been
since his first visit to “The Choughs,” and
looked up and answered with his old look and
voice when he heard his name called from one
of the first-floor windows.

The hailer was Drvsdalc, who was leaning out
in lounging-coat and velvet cap, and enjoying a
cigar as usual, in the midst of the flowers of his
hanging-garden.

“You’ve heard the good news, I suppose?"’
“No ; what do you mean ?”

“ Why, Blake has got the Latin verse.”

“ Hurrah ! I’m so glad.”

“ Come up and have a weed.” Tom ran up
the staircase and into Drysdale’s rooms, and was
leaning out of the window at his side in another
minute.

“What docs he get by it?” he said; “do
you know ?”

“No; some books bound in Russia, I dare
say, with the Oxford arms, and ‘Dominus illu-
minatio mea ’ on the back.”

“ No money ?”

“Not much — perhaps a ten’ner,” answered
Di-ysdale ; “ but no end of KvSog, I sup'pose.”
“It makes it look well for his first, don’t you
think ? But I wish he had got some money for

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

105

it. I often feel very uncomfortable about that
bill ; don’t you ?”

“ Not I ; what’s the good ? It’s notliing when
you are used to it. Besides, it don’t fall due
for another six weeks.”

“But if Blake can’t meet it then?” said
Tom.

“ Well, it will be A'acation, and I’ll trouble
greasy Benjamin to catch me then.”

“ But you don’t mean to say you won’t pay
it ?” said Tom, in horror.

“ Pay it ! You may trust Benjamin for that.
He’ll pull round his little usuries somehow.”

“ Only we have promised to pay on a certain
day, you know.”

“ Oh, of course, that’s the form. That only
means that he can't pinch us sooner.”

“ I do hope, though, Drysdale, that it will be
paid on the day,” said Tom, who could not quite
swallow the notion of forfeiting his word, even
though it were only a promise to pay to a scoun-
drel.

“All right. You’ve nothing to do with it,
remember. He won’t bother you. Besides,
you can plead infancy, if the worst comes to the
worst. There’s such a queer old bird gone to
your friend Hardy’s rooms.”

The mention of Hardy broke the disagreeable
train of thought into which Tom was falling,
and he listened eagerly as Drysdale went on.

“ It was about half an hour ago. I was look-
ing out here, and saw an old fellow come hob-
bling into quad on two sticks, in a shady blue
uniform coat and white trowsers. The kind of
old boy you road about in books, you know —
Commodore Trunnion, or Uncle Toby, or one
of that sort. Well, I watched him backing and
filling about the quad, and trying one staircase
and another; but there was nobody about. So
down 1 trotted, and went up to him for fun, and
to see what he was after. It was as good as a
play, if you could have seen it. I was ass enough
to take otf my cap and make a Ioav bow as I
came up to him, and he pulled off his uniform
cap in return, and we stood there bowing to one
another. He was a thorough old gentleman,
and I felt rather foolish for fear he should see
that I expected a lark when I came out. But
I don’t think he had an idea of it, and only set
my capping, him down to the wonderful good
manners of the college. So we got quite thick,
and I piloted him across to Hardy’s staircase in
the back quad. I wanted him to come up and
quench, but he declined, with many apologies,
i’rn sure he is a character.”

“ He must be Flardy’s father,” said Tom.

“I shouldn’t wonder. But is his father in
the navy ?”

“He is a retired captain.”

“ Then no doubt you’re right. What shall
we do ? Have a hand at picquet. Some men
will be here directly. Only for love.”

Tom declined the proffered game, and went
off soon after to his own rooms, a happier man
than he had been since his first night at “The
Choughs.”

CHAPTER XX.

THK RECONCILIATIOX.

Tom rose in the morning with a presentiment
that all would be over now before long, and, to
make his presentiment come true, resolved, be-
fore night, to go himself to Hardy and give in.
All he reserved to himself was the liberty to do
it in the manner which would be least painful
to himself. He was greatly annoyed, therefore,
when Hardy did not appear at morning chapel ;
for he had fixed on the leaving chapel as the
least unpleasant time in which to begin his con-
fession, and was going to catch Hardy then, and
follow him to his rooms. All the morning, too,
in answer to his inquiries by his scout Wiggins,
Hardy’s scout replied that his master was out,
or busy. He did not come to the boats — he did
not appear in hall ; so that, after hall, wlien Tom
went back to his own rooms, as he did at once,
instead of sauntering out of college or going to
a wine-party, he was quite out of heart at his
bad luck, and began to be afraid that he would
have to sleep on his unhealed wound another
night.

He sat down in an arm-chair and fell to mus-
ing, tind thought how wonderfully his life had
been changed in these few short weeks. He
could hardly get back across the gulf which sep-
arated him from the self who had come back
into those rooms after Easter, full of anticipa-
tions of the pleasures and delights of the coming
summer term and vacation. To his own sur-
prise, he didn’t seem much to regret the loss of
his chataaux en Espagne, and felt a sort of grim
satisfaction in their utter overthrow.

While occupied with these thoughts, he heard
talking on his stairs, accompanied by a strange
lumbering tread. These came nearer, and at
last stopped just outside his door, which opened
in another moment, and Wiggins announced :

“ Capting Hardy, sir.”

Tom jumped to his legs, and felt himself col-
or painfully. “ Here, Wiggins,” said he, “wheel
round that arm-chair for Captain Hardy. I am
so very glad to see you, sir,” and he hastened
round himself to meet the old gentleman, hold-
ing out his hand, which the visitor took very
cordially, as soon as he had passed his heavy
stick to his left hand, and balanced himself safe-
ly upon it.

“Thank you, sir; thank you,” said the cld
man, after a few moments’ pause ; “ I find your
companion-ladders rather steep;” and then he
sat down with some difficulty.

Tom took the Captain’s stick and undress cap,
and put them reverentially on his side-board ;
and then, to get rid of some little nervousness
which he couldn’t help feeling, bustled to his
cupboard, and helped Wiggins to place glasses
and biscuits on the table. “ Now, sir, Avhat will
you take ? I have port, sherry, and whisky
here, and can get you any thing else. Wiggins,
run to Hinton’s, and get some dessert.”

“No dessert, thank you, for me,” said the
Captain ; “I’ll take a cup of coffee, or a glass

106

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

of grog, or any thing you have ready. Don’t
open wine for me, pray, sir.”

“ Oh, it is all the better for being opened,”
said Tom, working away at a bottle of sherry
with his corkscrew — “and, Wiggins, get some
coffee and anchovy toast in a quarter of an hour ;
and just put out some tumblers and toddy ladles,
and bring up boiling water with the coffee.”

While making his hospitable preparations,
Tom managed to get many side-glances at the
old man, who sat looking steadily and abstract-
edly before him into the fire-place, and was much
struck and touched by the picture. The sailor
wore a well-preserved old undress uniform coat
and waistcoat, and white drill trowsers ; he was
a man of middle height, but gaunt and massive,
and Tom recognized the frame-work of the long
arms and grand shoulders and chest which he
had so often admired in the son. His right leg
was quite stiff from an old wound on the knee-
cap ; the left eye was sightless, and the scar of
a cutlass travelled down the drooping lid, and on
to the weather-beaten cheek below. His head
was high and broad, his hair and whiskers silver
white, while the shaggy eyebrows were scarcely
grizzled. His face was deeply lined, and the
long clean-cut lower jaw and drawn look about
the mouth gave a grim expression to the face at
the- first glance, which wore off as you looked,
leaving, however, on most men who thought
about it the impression which fastened on our
hero — “ an awkward man to have met at the
head of boarders towards the end of the great
war.”

In a minute or two, Tom, having completed
his duties, faced the old sailor, much reassured
by his covert inspection ; and, pouring himself
out a glass of sherry, pushed the decanter across
and drank to his guest.

“ Your health, sir,” he said ; “ and thank
yoiT very much for coming up to see me.”

“ Thank you, sir,” said the Captain, rousing
himself and filling, “ I drink to you, sir. The
fact is, I took a great liberty in coming up to
your rooms in this off-hand way, without call-
ing or sending up, but you’ll excuse it in an old
sailor.” Here the Captain took to his glass,
and seemed a little embarrassed. Tom felt em-
barrassed also, feeling that something was com-
ing, and could only think of asking how the
Captain liked the sherry. The Captain liked
the sherry very much. Then, suddenly clearing
his throat he went on ; “I felt, sir, that you
would excuse me, for I have a favor to ask of
j'ou.” He paused again, while Tom muttered
something about “great pleasure,” and then
went on.

“ You know my son, Mr. Brown ?”

“Yes, sir; he has been my best friend up
here ; I owe more to him than to any man in
Oxford.”

The Captain’s eye gleamed with pleasure as
he replied, “ Jack is a noble fellow, Mr. Brown,
though I say it who am his father. I’ve often
promised myself a cruise to Oxford since he
has been here. I came here at last yesterday.

and have been having a long yarn with him.
I found there was something on his mind.
He can’t keep any thing from his old father ;
and so I drew out of him that he loves you as
David loved Jonathan. He made my old eye
very dim while he was talking of you, Mr.
Brown. And then I found that you two are not
as you used to be. Some coldness sprung up
between you, but w'hat about I couldn’t get at.
Young men are often hasty — I know I was,
forty years ago : Jack says he has been hasty
with you. Now that boy is all I have in the
world, Mr. Brown. I know my boy’s friend
will like to send an old man home with a light
heart. So I made up my mind to come over
to you and ask you to make it up with Jack.
I gave him the slip after dinner, and here I
am.”

“ Oh, sir, did he really ask you to come to
me ?”

“No, sir,” said the Captain ; “he did not —
I’m sorry for it ; I think Jack must be in the
wrong, for he said he had been too hasty, and yet
he wouldn’t ask me to come to you and make it
up. But he is )mung, sir — young and proud.
He said he couldn’t move in it, his mind was
made up ; he was wretched enough over it, but
the move must come from you. And so that’s
the favor I have to ask, that you will make it up
with Jack. It isn’t often a young man can do
such a favor to an old one — to an old father with
one son. You’ll not feel the worse for having
done it, if it’s ever so hard to do, when you
come to be my age.” And the old man looked
wistfully across the table, the muscles about his
mouth quivering as he ended.

Tom sprang from his chair and grasped the
old sailor’s hand as he felt the load pass out of
his heart. “Favor, sir!” he said; “I have
been a mad fool enough already in this business
— I should have been a double-dyed scoundrel,
like enough, by this time but for your son, and
I’ve quarrelled with him for stopping me at the
pit’s mouth. Favor! If God will. I’ll prove
somehow where the favor lies, and what I owe to
him ; and to you, sir, for coming to me to-night.
Stop here two minutes, sir, and I’ll run down
and bring him over.”

Tom tore away to Hardy’s door and knocked.
There was no pausing in the passage now.
“ Come in.” He opened the door but did not
enter, and for a moment or two could not speak.
The rush of associations which the sight of the
well-known old rickety furniture, and the figure
which was seated, book in hand, with its back to
the door and its feet up against one side of the
mantel-piece, called up, choked him.

“ May I come in ?” he said at last.

He saw the figure give a start, and the book
trembled a little, but then came the answer, slow
but firm :

“I have not changed my opinion.”

“No, dear old boy, but I have,” and Tom
rushed across to his friend, dearer than ever to
him now, and threw his arm round his neck ;
and, if the un-English truth must out, had three

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

107

parts of a mind to kiss the rough face which was
now working with strong emotion.

“Thank God !” said Hardy, as he grasped
the hand which hung over his shoulder.

“And now come over to my rooms ; your fa-
ther is there waiting for us.”

“What, the dear old governor? That’s
w'hat he has been after, is it ? I couldn’t think
where he could have ‘ hove to,’ as he would say.”
Haidy put on his cap, and the two hurried
back to Tern’s rooms, the lightest hearts in the
University of Oxford.

CHAPTER XXI.

CAPTAIN HARDY ENTERTAINED BY ST. AMBROSE.

There are moments in the life of the most
self-contained and sober of us all when we fair-
ly bubble over, like a full bottle of Champagne
with the cork out ; and this was one of them for
our hero, who, however, be it remarked, was
neither self-contained nor sober by nature.
When they got back to his rooms, he really
hai'dly knew what to do to give vent to his
lightness of heart; and Hardj>', though self-
contained and sober enough in general, was on
this occasion almost as bad as his friend. They
rattled on, talked out the thing which came up-
permost, whatever the subject might chance to
be ; but, whether grave or gay, it always ended
after a minute or two in jokes, not always good,
and chaff and laughter. The poor Captain was
a litle puzzled at first, and made one or two en-
deavors to turn the talk into improving chan-
nels. But very soon he saw that Jack was
thoroughly happy, and that was always enough
for him. So he listened to one and the other,
joining cheerily in the laugh whenever he
could ; and, when he couldn’t catch the joke,
looking like a benevolent old lion, and making
as much belief that he had understood it all as
the simplicity and truthfulness of his character
would allow.

The spirits of the two friends seemed inex-
haustible. They lasted out the bottle of sherry
which Tom had uncorked, and the remains of
a bottle of his famous port. He had tried hard
to be allowed to open a fresh bottle, but the
Captain had made such a point of his not doing
so that he had given in for hospitality’s sake.
They lasted out the coffee and anchovy toast ;
after which the Captain made a little effort at
moving, which was supplicatingly stopped by
Tom.

“Oh, pray don’t go. Captain Hardy. I
haven’t been so happy for months. Besides,
I must brew you a glass of grog. I pride my-
self on my brew. Your son there will tell you
that I am a dead hand at it. Here, Wiggins, a
lemon !” shouted Tom.

“ Well, for once in a way, I suppose. Eh,
Jack ?” said the Captain, looking at his son.

“Oh yes, father. You mayn’t know it.
Brown, but if there is one thing harder to do

than another, it is to get an old sailor like my
father to take a glass of grog at night.”

The Captain laughed a little laugh, and shook
his thick stick at his son, who went on :

“ And as for asking him to take a pipe with
it — ”

“Dear me,” said Tom, “I quite forgot. I
really beg jmur pardon, Captain Hardy and
he put down the lemon he was squeezing and
produced a box of cigars.

“ It’s all Jack’s nonsense, sir,” said the Cap-
tain, holding out his hand, nevertheless, for the
box.

“Now, father, don’t be absurd,” interrupted
Hardy, snatching the box away from him.
“You might as well give him a glass of absinthe.
He is church-warden at home, and can’t smoke
any thing but a long clay.”

“I’m very sorry I haven’t one here, but I can
send out in a minute.” And Tom was making
for the door to shout for Wiggins.

“No, don’t call. I’ll fetch some from my
rooms.”

When Hardy left the room, Tom squeezed
away at his lemon, and was preparing himself
for a speech to Captain Hardy full of confession
and gratitude. But the Captain was before
him, and led the conversation into a most un-
expected channel.

“I suppose, now, Mr. Brown,” he began,
“you don’t find any diflBculty in construing
yowc Thucydides ?”

“Indeed I do, sir,” said Tom, laughing. “I
find him a very tough old customer, except in
the simplest narrath'e.”

“For my part,” said theCaptain, “Ican’tget
on at all, I find, without a translation. But you
see, sir, I had none of the advantages which 3-011
3'0ung men have up here. In fact, Mr. Brown,
I didn’t begin Greek till Jack was nearly ten
years old.” The Captain in his secret heart was
prouder of his partial victory over the Greek
tongue in his old age than of his undisputed tri-
umphs over the French in his youth, and was not
averse to talking of it.

“I wonder that 3'ou ever began it at all, sir,”
said Tom.

“You wouldn’t wonder if 3-ou knew how an
uneducated man like me feels when he comes to
a place like O.xford.”

“Uneducated, sir !” said Tom. “ Why your
education has been worth twice as much, I’m
sure, as any we get here.”

“No, sir; we never learned any thing in the
navy \Vhen I was a youngster, except a little
rule-of-thumb mathematics. One picked up a
sort of smattering of a language or two knocking
about the world, but no grammatical knowledge,
nothing scientific. If a boy doesn’t get a meth-
od, he is beating to windward in a crank craft
all his life. He hasn’t got any regular place to
stow away what he gets into his brains, and so it
lies tumbling about in the hold, and he loses it,
or it gets damaged and is never ready for use.
You see what I mean, Mr. Brown ?”

“ Yes, sir. But I’m afraid we don’t all of us

108

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

get much method up liere. Do you really enjoy '
reading Thucydides now, Captain Hardy?”
“Indeed I do, sir, very much,” said the Cap-
tain. “There’s a great deal in his history to
interest an old sailor, you know. I dare say,
now, that I enjoy those parts about the sea-fights
more than you do.” The Captain looked at
Tom as if he had made an audacious remark.

“I am sure you do, sir,” said Tom, smiling.
“Because, you see, Mr. Brown,” said the
Captain, “when one has been in. that sort, of
thing one’s self, one likes to read how people in
other times managed, and to think what one
would have done in their place. I don’t be-
lieve that the Greeks just at that time were very
resolute fighters, though. Nelson or Colling-
wood would have finished that war in a year or
two.”

“Not with triremes, do you think, sir?” said
Tom.

“Yes, sir, with any vessels which rvere to be
had,” said the Captain. “But you are right
about triremes. It has always been a great
puzzle to me how those triremes could have
been worked. How do you understand the
three banks of oars, Mr. Brown ?”

“Well, sir, I suppose they must have been
one above the other somehow.”

“But the upper bank must have had oars
twenty feet long and more, in that case,” said
the Captain. “You must allow for leverage,
you see.”

“Of course, sir. When one comes to think
of it, it isn’t easy to see how they were manned
and worked,” said Tom.

“ Now my notion about triremes — ” began
the Captain, holding the head of his stick with
both hands, and looking across at Tom.

“ Why, father,” cried Hardy, returning at the
moment with the pipes, and catching the Cap-
tain’s last word, “on one of your hobby-horses
already! You’re not safe! I can’t leave you
for two minutes. Here’s a long pipe for you.
How in the world did he get on triremes ?”

“I hardly know,” said Tom; “but I want
to hear what Captain Hardy thinks about them.
You were saying, sir, that the upper oars must
have been twenty feet long at least.”

“My notion is — ” said the Captain, taking
the pipe and tobacco-pouch from his son’s hand.

“ Stop one moment,” said Hardy ; “ I found
Blake at my rooms, and asked him to come over
here. You don’t object ?”

“ Object, my dear fellow ! I’m much obliged
to you. Now, Hardy, would you like to have
any one else? I can send in a minute.”

“No one, thank you.”

“ You won’t stand on ceremony now, will
you, with me ?” said Tom.

“You see I haven’t.”

“And you never will again ?”

“No, never. Now, father, you can heave
ahead about those oars.”

The Captain went on charging his pipe, and
proceeded: “You see, Mr. Brown, they must
have been at least twenty feet long, because, if

you allow the lowest bank of oars to have been
three feet above the water-line, which even Jack
thinks they must have been — ”

“ Certainly — that height at least, to do any
good,” said Hardy.

“Not that I think Jack’s opinion worth much
on the point,” went on his father.

“ It’s very ungrateful of you, then, to say so,
father,” said Hardy, “after all the time I’ve
wasted trying to make it all clear to you.”

“ I don’t say that Jack’s is not a good opin-
ion on most things, Mr. Brown,” said the Cap-
tain ; ‘ ‘ but he is all at sea about triremes.
He believes that the men of the uppermost bank
rowed somehow like lightermen on the Thames,
walking up and down.”

“ I object to your statement of my faith, fa-
ther,” said Hardy.

‘ ‘ Now you know. Jack, you have said so oft-
en.”

“I have said they must have stood up to
row, and so — ”

“ You would have had awful confusion. Jack.
You must have order between decks when you’re
going into action. Besides, the rowers had cush-
ions.”

“ That old heresy of yours again.”

“ Well, but Jack, they Aarf cushions. Didn't
the rowers who were marched across the Isth-
mus to man the ships which were to surprise the
Piraeus carry their oars, thongs, and cushions ?”
“If they did, your -conclusion doesn’t follow,
father, that they sat on them to row.”

“You hear, Mr. Brown,” said the Captain;
“he admits my point about the cushions.”

“Oh, father, I hope you used to fight the
French more fairly,” said Hardy.

“But, didn’t he? Didn’t Jack admit my
point ?”

“ Implicitly, sir, I think,” said Tom, catching
Hardy’s eye, which was dancing with fun.

“ Of course he did. You hear that, Jack ?
Now my notion about triremes — ”

A knock at the door interrupted the Cap-
tain again, and Blake came in and was intro-
duced.

“ Mr. Blake is almost our best scholar, fa-
ther ; you should appeal to him about the cush-
ions.”

“lam very proud to make your acquaintance,
sir,” said the Captain ; “I have heard my son
speak of you often.”

“We were talking about triremes,” said
Tom ; “ Captain Hardy thinks the oars must
have been twenty feet long.”

“ Not easy to come forward well with that
sort of oar,” said Blake; “they must have
pulled a slow stroke.”

“ Our torpid would have bumped the best of
them,” said Hardy.

“ I d.m’t think they could have made more
than six knots,” said the Captain; “but yet
they used to sink one another, and a light boat
going only six knots couldn’t break another in
two amidships. It’s a puzzling subject, Mr.
Blake.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

109

“ It is, sir,” said Blake ; “ if we onl}Oiad some
of their fo’castle sontjs we should know more
about it. I’m afraid they had no Dibdin.”

“I wish you would turn one of my father’s
favorite songs into anapatsts for him,” said
Hardy.

“ What are they ?” said Blake.

chance of expounding his notion as to triremes
slipping away, but answered :

“By all means, sir; Jack must sing for me,
though. Did you ever hear him sing ‘ Tom
Bowling?’ ”

“ No, never, sir. Why, Hardy, you never
told me you could sing.”

“ ‘Tom Bowling,’ or, ‘The wind that blows,
and the ship that goes, and the lass that loves
a sailor.’ ”

“By -the -way, why shouldn’t we have a
song?” said Tom. “What do you say. Cap-
tain Hardy ?”

The Captain winced a little as he saw his

“You never asked me,” said Hardy, laugh-
ing ; “ but if I sing for my father, he must spin
us a yarn.”

“ Oh yes ; will you, sir?”

“ I’ll do my best, Mr. Brown ; but I don't
know that you’ll care to listen to my old yarns.
Jack thinks every body must like them as well

110

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

as he, who used to hear them when he was a
child.”

“ Thank you, sir ; that’s famous. Now, Har-
dy, strike up.”

* “After you. You must set the example in
your own rooms.”

So Tom sang his song. And the noise
brought Drysdale and another man up, who
were loitering in quad on the look-out for some-
thing to do. Drysdale and the Captain recog-
nized one another, and were friends at once.
And then Hardy sang “ Tom Bowling,” in a
style which astonished the rest not a little, and
as usual nearly made his father cry ; and Blake
sang, and Drysdale, and the other man. And
then the Captain was called on for his yarn ;
and, the general voice being for “something
that had happened to him,” “ the strangest
thing that had ever happened to him at sea,”
the old gentleman laid down his pipe and sat
up in his chair, with his hands on his stick, and
began. — .

THE captain’s STOKY.

It will be forty years ago next month since
the ship I W'as then in came home from the
West Indies station and was paid off. I had
nowhere in particular to go just then, ajid so
was very glad to get a letter, the morning after
I went ashore at Portsmouth, asking me to go
down to Plymouth for a week or so. It came
from an old sailor, a friend of my family, who
had been Commodore of the fleet. He lived at
Plymouth ; he was a thorough old sailor — what
you young men would call “an old salt” — and
couldn’t live out of sight of the blue sea and the
shipping. It is a disease that a good many of
us take who have spent our best years on the
sea. I have it myself — a sort of feeling that
we must be under another kind of Providence,
when we look out and see a hill on this side
and a hill on that. It’s wonderful to see the
trees come out and the corn grow, but then it
doesn’t come so home to an old sailor. I know
that we’re all just as much under the Lord’s
hand on shore as at sea ; but you can’t read in
a book you haven’t been used to, and they that
go down to the sea in ships, they see the works
of the Lord and His wonders in tlie deep. It
isn’t their fault if they don’t see His wonders
on the land so easily as other people.

But for all that, there’s no man enjoys a
cruise in the country more than a sailor. It’s
forty years ago since I started for Plymouth,
but I haven’t forgotten the road a bit, or how
beautiful it was ; all through the New Forest,
and over Salisbury Plain, and then on by the
mail to Exeter, and through Devonshire. It
took me three days to get to Plymouth, for we
didn’t get about so quick in those days.

The Commodore was very kind to me when
I got there, and I went about with him to the
ships in the bay, and through the dock-yard,
and picked up a good deal that was of use to
me afterwards. I was a lieutenant in those
days, and had seen a good deal of service, and

I found the old Commodore had a great-nephew
whom he had adopted, and had set his whole
heart upon. He was. an old bachelor himself,
but the boy had come to live with him, and w'as
to go to sea ; so he wanted to put him under
some one who would give an eye to him for the
first year or two. He was a light slip of a boy
then, fourteen years old, with deep-set blue eyes
and long eyelashes, and cheeks like a giiTs, but
as bi'ave as a lion and as merry as a lark. The
old gentleman w'as very pleased to see that we
took. to one another. We used to bathe and
boat together ; and he was never tired of hear-
ing my stories about the great admirals, and
the fleet, and the stations I had been on.

Well, it was agreed that I should apply for a
ship again directly, and go up to London with a
letter to the Admiralty from the Commodore, to
help things on. After a month or two I was
appointed to a brig lying at Spithead ; and so
I wrote off to the Commodore, and he got
his boy a midshipman’s birth on board, and
brought him to Portsmouth himself a day or
two before we sailed for the Mediterranean.
The old gentleman came on board to see his
boy’s hammock slung, and went below into the
cockpit to make sure that all was right. He
only left us by the pilot-boat when we were well
out in the Channel. He was very low at part-
ing from his boy, but bore up as well as he
could ; and we promised to write to him from
Gibraltar, and as often afterwards as we had a
chance.

I was soon as proud and fond of little Tom
Holdsworth as if he had been my own younger
brother ; and, for that matter, so were all the
crew, from our captain to the cook’s boy. He
was such a gallant youngster, and yet so gentle.
In one cutting-out business we had, he climbed
over the boatswain’s shoulders, and Avas almost
first on deck ; hoAv he came out of it without a
scratch I can’t think to this day. But he hadn’t
a bit of bluster in him, and was as kind as a
woman to any one who ivas wounded or down
with sickness.

After we had been out about a year we were
sent to cruise off Malta, on the look-out for the
French fleet. It was a long business, and the
post wasn’t so good then as it is now. We
Avere sometimes for months Avithout getting a
letter, and kncAv nothing of what aa^s happening
at home, or anywhere else. We had a sick
time too on board, and at last he got a fever.
He bore up against it like a man, and wouldn’t
knock oft' duty for a long time. He A\'as mid-
shipman of my watch ; so I used to make him
turn in early, and tried to ease things to him
as much as I could ; but he didn’t pick up, and
I began to get very anxious about him. I talk-
ed to the doctor, and turned matters over in my
mind, and at last I came to think he wouldn’t
get any better unless he could sleep out of the
cockpit. So, one night, the 20th of October it
was — I remember it Avell enough, better than I
remember any day since ; it Avas a dirty night,
bloAving half a gale of Avind from the soutliAvard,

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

Ill

and we were under close-reefed topsails — I had
the first watch, and at nine o’clock I sent him
down to my cabin to sleep there, where he would
be fresher and quieter, and I was to turn into
his hammock when my watch was over.

I was on deck three hours or so sfter he
went down, and the weather became dirtier
and dirtier, and the scud drove by, and the
wind sang and hummed through the rigging —
it made me melancholy to listen to it. I
could think of nothing but the youngster
down below, and what I should say to his
poor old uncle if any thing happened. Well,
soon after midnight 1 went down and turned
into his hammock. I didn’t go to sleep at
once, for I remember very well listening to
the creaking of the ship’s timbers as she
rose to the swell, and watching the lamp,
which was slung from the ceiling, and gave
light enough to make out the other hammocks
swinging slowly all together. At last, how-
ever, I dropped off, and I reckon I must have
been asleep about an hour, when I woke with
a start. iFor the first moment I didn’t see
any thing but the swinging hammocks and the
lamp ; but then suddenly I became aware that
some one was standing by my hammock, and
I saw the figure as plainly as I see any one
of you now, for the foot of the hammock was
close to the lamp, and the light struck full
across on the head and shoulders, which was
all- that I could see of him. There he was,
the old Commodore ; his grizzled hair com-
ing out from under a red woollen nightcap,
and his shoulders wrapped in an old thread-
bare blue dressing-gown which I had often
seen him in. His face looked pale and drawn,
and there was a wistful, disappointed look
about the eyes. I was so taken aback I could
not speak, but lay watching him. He looked
full at my face once or twice, but didn’t seem
to recognize me ; and, just as I was getting
back my tongue and going to speak, he said
slowly : “ Where’s Tom ? this is his hammock.
I can’t see Tom and then he looked vaguely
about and passed away somehow, but how I
couldn’t see. In a moment or two I jumped
out and hurried to my cabin, but young Holds-
worth was fast asleep. I sat down and wrote
down just what I had seen, making a note of
the exact time — twenty minutes to two. I
didn’t turn in again, but sat watching the
youngster. When he woke I asked him if he
had heard any thing of his great-uncle by the
last mail. Yes, he had heard ; the old gen-
tleman was rather feeble, but nothing par-
ticular the matter. I kept my own counsel,
and never told a soul in the ship ; and, when
the mail came to hand a few days afterwards
with a letter from the Commodore to his
nephew, dated late in September, saying that
he was well, I thought the figure by my ham-
mock must have been all my own fancy.

However, by the next mail came the news
of the old Commodore’s deatli. It had been
a very sudden break-up, his executor said. He

had left all his property, which was not much,
to his great-nephew, who was to get leave to
come home as soon as he could.

The first time we touched at Malta, Tom
Holdsworth left us and went home. We fol-
lowed about two years afterwards, and the first
thing I did after landing was to find out the
Commodore’s executor. He was a quiet, dry
little Plymouth lawyer, and very civilly an-
swered all my questions about the last days of
my old friend. At last I asked him to tell me
as near as he could the time of his deatli :
and he put on his spectacles, and got his diary
and turned over the leaves. I was quite nerv-
ous till he looked up and said : “Twenty-five
minutes to two, sir, a.m., on the morning of Oc-
tober 21st ; or it might be a few minutes later.”

“How do you mean, sir ?” I asked.

“ Well,” he said, “it is an odd story. The
doctor was sitting with me watching the old
man, and, as I tell you, at twenty-five min-
utes to two he got up and said it was all over.
We stood together, talking in whispers for, it
might be, four or five minutes, when the body
seemed to move. He was an odd old man,
you know, the Commodore, and we never could
get him properly to bed ; but he lay in his red
night-cap and old dressing-gown, with a blank-
et over him. It was not a pleasant sight, I
can tell you, sir. I don’t think one of you
gentlemen, who are bred to face all manner of
dangers, would have liked it. As I was say-
ing, the body first moved, and then sat up,
propping itself behind with its hands. The
eyes were Avide open, and he looked at us for
a moment, and said sloAvly, ‘I have been to
the Mediterranean, but I didn’t see Tom.’
Then the body sank back again, and this time
the old Commodore was really dead. But it
was not a pleasant thing to happen to one, sir.
I do not remember any thing like it in my forty
years’ practice.”

CHAPTER XXII.

DEPAKTURES EXPECTED AND UNEXPECTED.

There was a silence of a few seconds after
the Captain had finished his story, all the men
sitting with eyes fixed on him, and not a little
surprised at the results of their call. Drysdale
was the first to break the silence, which he did
with a “By George!” and a long respiration;
but, as he did not seem prepared with any fur-
ther remark, Tom took up the running.

“What a strange Story!” he said; “and
that really happened to you. Captain Hardy ?”

“ To me, sir, in the Mediterranean, more than
forty years ago.”

‘ ‘ The strangest thing about it is that the old
Commodore should have managed to get all
the way to the ship, and then not lun^e known
where his nephew was,” said Blake.

“ He only knew his nephew’s berth, you see,
sir,” said the Captain.

112

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“But he might have beat about through the
ship till he had found him.”

“You must remember that he was at his last
breath, sir,” said the Captain; “you can’t ex-
pect a man to have his head clear at such a mo-
ment.”

“Not a man, perhaps ; but I should a ghost,”
said Blake.

“ Time was every thing to him,” went on the
Captain, without regarding the interruption,
“ space nothing. But the strangest part of it
is that I should have seen the figure at all. It’s
true I had been thinking of the old uncle, be-
cause of the boy’s illness ; but I can’t suppose
he was thinking of me, and, as I say, he never
recognized me. I have taken a great deal of
interest in such matters since that time, but I
have never met with just such a case as this.”

“No, that is the puzzle. One can fancy his
appearing to his nephew well enough,” said
Tom.

“We can’t account for these things, or for a
good many other things which ought to be quite
as startling, only we see them every day. But
now I think it is time for us to be going, eh
Jack ?” and the Captain and his son rose to go.

Tom saw that it would be no kindness to
them to try to prolong the sitting, and so he got
up too, to accompany them to the gates. This
broke up the party. Before going, Drysdale,
after whispering to Tom, tvent up to Captain
Hardy, and said :

“I want to ask you to do me a favor, sir.
Will you and your son breakfast with me to-mor-
row ?”

“We shall be very happy, sir,” said the Cap-
tain.

“ I think, father, 3mu had better breakfast
with me, quietly. We are much obliged to
Mr. Drysdale, but I can’t give up a whole morn-
ing. Besides, I have several things to talk to
you about.”

“Nonsense, Jack,” blurted out the old sailor ;
“ leave your books alone for one morning. I’m
come u]) here to enjoy myself, and see your
friends.”

Hardy gave a slight shrug of his shoulders at
the word friends, and Drysdale, who saw it,
looked a little confused. He had never asked
Hardy to his rooms before. The Ca))tain saw
that something was the matter, and hastened in
his own way to make all smooth again.

“Never mind Jack, sir,” he said ; “he shall
come. It’s a great treat to me to be with young
men, especially when they are friends of rny
boy.”

“I hope j'ou’ll come as a personal favor to
me,” saidDrysdale, turning to Hard}'. “Brown,
you’ll bring him, won’t you ?”

“Oh yes, I’m sure he’ll come,” said Tom.

“ That’s .all right. Good-night, then and
Drysdale went off.

Hardy and Tom accompanied the Captain to
the gate. During his passage across the two
quadrangles, the old gentleman was full of the
praises of the men, and of protestations as to

the improvement in social manners and customs
since his day, when there could have been no
such meeting, he declared, without blackguard-
ism and drunkenness, at least among young of-
ficers ; but then they had less to think of than
Oxford men, no proper education. And so the
Captain was evidently travelling back into the
great trireme question when they reached the
gate. As they could go no farther with him,
however, he had to carry away his solution of
the three-banks-of-oars difficulty in his own bo-
som to the Mitre.

“Don’t let us go in,” said Tom, as the gate
closed on the Captain, and they turned back
into the quadrangle; “let us take a turn or
two;” so they walked up and down the inner
quad in the starlight.

Just at first they were a good deal embarrass-
ed and confused ; but before long, though not
without putting considerable force on himself,
Tom got back into something like his old famil-
iar way of unbosoming himself to his re-found
friend, and Hardy showed more than his old
anxiety to meet him half-way. His ready and
undisguised sympathy soon dispersed the few
remaining clouds which were still hanging be-
tween them ; and Tom found it almost a pleas-
ure, instead of a dreary task, as he had antici-
pated, to make a full confession, and state the
case clearly and strongly against himself to one
who claimed neither by word nor look the least
superiority over him, and never seemed to .re-
member that he himself had been ill-treated in
the matter.

“He had such a chance of lecturing me and
didn’t do it,” thought Tom afterwards, when he
was considering why he felt so very grateful to
Hardy. “It was so cunning of him, too. If
he had begun lecturing, I should have begun to
defend myself, and never have felt half such a
scamp as I did when I was telling it all cut to
him in my own way.”

The result of Hardy’s management was that
Tom made a clean breast of it, telling every
thing down to his night at the ragged school ;
and what an effect his chance opening of the
“Apology” had had on him. Here for the
first time Hardy came in with his usual dry,
keen voice; “You needn’t have gone so far
back as Plato for that lesson.”

“I don’t understand,” said Tom.

“Well, there’s something about an indwell-
ing spirit which guideth every man in St.
Paul, isn’t there ?”

“Yes, a great deal,” Tom answered, after a
pause ; “ but it isn’t the same thing.”

“ Why not the same thing ?”

“ Oh, surely you must feel it. It would be
almost blasphemy in us now to talk as St. Paul
talked. It is much easier to face the notion,
or the fact, of a demon or spirit such as Socra-
tes felt to be in him, than to face what St. Paul
seems to be meaning.”

“Yes, much easier. The only question is
whether we will be heathens or not.”

“ How do you moan ?” said Tom.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

113

“Why, a spirit was speaking to Socrates,
r.iid guiding him. lie obeyed the guidance,
but knew not whence it came. A spirit is
striving with us too, and trying to guide us — we
feel that just as much as he did. Do we know
what spirit it is? whence it comes? Will we
obey it? If we can’t name it — know no more
of it than he knew about his demon, of course
we are in no better position than he — in fact,
heathens.”

Tom made no answer, and, after a slight
turn or two more. Hardy said, “Let us go in
and they went to his rooms. When the can-
dles were lighted, Tom saw the array of books
on the table, several of them open, and remem-
bered how near the examinations were.

“ I see you want to work,” he said. “ Well,
good-night. I know how fellows like you hate
being thanked — there, you needn’t wince; I’m
not going to try it on. The best way to thank
you, I know, is to go straight for the future.
I’ll do that, please God, this time at any rate.
Now what ought I to do. Hardy?”

“Well, it’s very hard to say. I’ve thought
about it a great deal this last few days — since I
felt you were coming round — but can’t make
up my mind. How do you feel yourself?
What’s your own instinct about it?’,’

“Of course, I must break it all off at once,
completely,” said Tom, mournfully, and half
hoping that Hardy might not agree with him.

“ Of course,” answered Hardy ; “ but how ?”
“In the way that will pain her least. I
would sooner lose my hand or bite my tongue
off than that she should feel lowered, or lose
any self-respect, you know,” said Tom, looking
helplessly at his fri.end.

“Yes, that’s all right — you must take all you
can on your own shoulders. It must leave a
sting, though, for both of you, manage how you
will.”

“But I can’t bear to let her think I don’t care
for her — I needn’t do that — I can’t do that.”

“I don’t know what to advise. However, I
believe I was wrong in thinking she cared for
you so much. She will be hurt, of course — she
can’t help being hurt — but it won’t be so bad as
I used to think.”

Tom made no answer; in spite of all his
good resolutions, he was a little piqued at this
last speech. Hardy went on presently, “I
wish she were well out of Oxford. It’s a bad
town for a girl to be living in, especially as a
bar-maid in a place which we haunt. I don’t
know that she will take much harm now ; but
it’s a very trying thing for a girl of that sort to
be thrown every day among a dozen young
men above her in rank, and not one in ten of
whom has any manliness about him.”

“How do you mean — no manliness ?”

“I mean that a girl in her position isn’t safe
with us. If we had any manliness in us she
would be — ”

“You can’t expect all men to be blocks of
ice, or milksops,” said Tom, who was getting
nettled.

“ D:;n’t think that I meant you,” said Hardy ;
“indeed I didn’t. But surely, think a mo-
ment ; is it a proof of manliness that the pure
and the weak should fear you and shrink from
you ? Which is the true — aye, and the brave
— man, he who trembles before a woman or he
before whom a woman trembles?”

“Neither,” said Tom ; “but I see what you
mean, and when you put it that way it's clear
enough.”

“But you’re wrong in saying ‘neither’ if
you do see what I mean.” Tom was silent.
“ Can there be any true manliness without
purity ?” went on Hardy. Tom drew a deep
breath, but said nothing. “And where then
can you point to a place where there is so little
manliness as here ? It makes my blood boil to
see what one must see everyday. There are a
set of men up here, and have been ever since
I can remember the place, not one of whom
can look at a inodest woman without making
her shudder.”

“There must always be some blackguards,’'
said Tom.

“ Yes ; but unluckily the blackguards set the
fashion, and give the tone to public opinion.
I'm sure both of us have seen enough to know
perfectly well that up .here, among us under-
graduates, men who are deliberately and avow-
edly profligates, are rather admired and courted
— are said to know the world, and all that ;
while a man who tries to lead a pure life, and
makes no secret of it, is openly sneered at by
them, looked down on more or less by the great
mass of men, and, to use the word you used
just now, thought a milksop by almost all.”

“I don’t think it is so bad as that,” said
Tom. “There are many men who would re-
speet him, though they might not be able to fol-
low him.”

“ Of course, I never meant that there are not
many such, but they don’t set the fashion. I
am sure I'm right. Let us try it by the best
test. Haven’t you and I in our secret hearts
this cursed feeling, that the sort of man we are
talking of is a milksop ?”

After a moment’s thought, Tom answered :
“ I am afraid I have, but I really am thorough-
1}" ashamed of it now. Hardy. But you haven’t
it. If you had it, you could never have spoken
to me as you have.”

“I beg your pardon. No man is more open
than I to the bad influences of any place he lives
in. God knows I am even as other men, and
worse ; for I have been taught, ever since I
could speak, that the crown of all real manli-
ness, of all Christian manliness, is purity.”
Neither of the two spoke for some minutes.
Then Hardy looked at his watch :

“Past eleven,” he said. “ I must do some
w'ork. 'Well, Brown, this will be a day to be
remembered in my calendar.”

Tom wrung his hand, but did not venture to
reply. As he got to the door, however, he
turned back, and said :

“Do you think I ought to w'rite to her?”

114

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“Well, you can try. You’ll find it a bitter
business, I fear.”

“I’ll try, then. Good-night.”

Tom went to his own rooms, and set to work
to write his letter ; and certainly found it as
difficult and unpleasant a task as he had ever
set himself to work upon. Half a dozen times
he tore up sheet after sheet of his attempts, and
got up and walked about, and plunged and
kicked mentally against the collar and traces in
which he had harnessed himself by his friend’s
help — trying to convince himself that Hardy
was a Puritan, W’ho had lived quite differently
from other men, and knew nothing of what a
man ought to do in a case like this. That after
all very little harm had been done ! The world
would never go on at all if people were to be so
scrupulous ! Probably not another man in the
college, except Grey, perhaps, would think any-
thing of what he had done! Done! — why,
what had he done ? Pie couldn’t be taking it
more seriously if he had ruined her !

At this point he managed to bring himself
up sharp again more than once. “No thanks
to me, at any rate, that she isn’t ruined. Had
I any pity, any scruples ? My God, what a
mean, selfish rascal I have been !” and then he
sat down again, and wrote, and scratched out
what he had written, till the other fit came on,
and something of the same process had to be
gone through again.

We must all recognize the process, and re-
member many occasions on which we have had
to put bridle and bit on, and rid ourselves as if
we had been horses or mules without under-
standing ; and what a trying business it was —
as bad as. getting a young colt past a gypsy en-
campment in a narrow lane.

At last, after many trials, Tom got himself
well in hand, and produced something which
seemed to satisfy him ; for, after reading it
three or four times, he put it in a cover, with a
small case, which he produced from his desk,
sealed it, directed it, and then went to bed.

Next morning, after chapel, he joined Hardy,
and walked to his rooms with him, and, after a
few -words on indifferent matters, said :

“ Well, I wrote my letter last night.’’

“Did you satisfy yourself?”

“ Yes, I think so. I don’t know, though, on
second thoughts : it was very tough work.”

“ I was afraid you would find it so.”

“But wouldn’t you like to see it ?”

“No, thank you. I suppose my father will
be here directly.”

“But I wish you would read it, though,”
said Tom, producing a copy.

“Well, if you wish it, I suppose I must;
but I don’t see howl can do any good.”

Hardy took the letter and sat down, and Tom
drew a chair close to him, and watched his face
while he read :

“It is best for us both that I should not .sec
you any more, at least at present. I feel that
I have done you a great wrong. I dare not say
much to you, for fear of making that wrong

greater. I can not, I need not tell you how I
despise myself now — how I long to make you
any amends in my power. If ever I can be of
any service to you, i do hope that nothing which
lias passed Avill hinder you from applying to
me. You will not believe how it pains me to
Avrite this; hoAv should you? I don’t deseiwe
that you should believe any thing I say. I
must seem heartless to you ; I have been, I am
heartless. I hardly knoAv Avhat I am Avriting.
I shall long all my life to hear good ncAvs of
you. I don’t ask you to pardon me, but if a’Ou
can prevail on yourself not to send back the in-
closed, and Avill keep it as a small remembrance
of one who is deeply sorry for the wrong he has
done you, but Avho can not and will not say ho
is sorry that he ever met you, you will be add-
ing another to the many kindnesses Avhich I
haA'e to thank you for, and AA'hich I shall never
forget.”

Hardy read it OA'er several times, as Tom
Avatched impatiently, unable to make out any
thing from his face.

“What do you think? You don’t think
there’s any thing Avrong in it, I hope ?”

“No, indeed, my dear felloAV. I really think
it does you credit. I don’t knoAVAvhat else you
could have said A-ery Avell, only — ”

“ Only Avhat?”

“ Couldn’t you have made it a little shorter?”
“ No, I couldn’t; but you don’t mean that.
What did jmu mean by that ‘ only?’ ”

“Why, I don’t think this letter Avill end the
business ; at least I’m afraid not.”

“But Avhat more could I haA'e said?”
“Nothing more, certainly; but couldn’t you
haA'e been a little quieter — it’s difficult to get the
right word — a little cooler, perhaps. Couldn’t
you have made the part about not seeing her
again a little more decided?”

“But you said I needn’t pretend I didn't
care for her.”

“Did I?”

“ Yes. Besides, it Avould haA'e been a lie.”
“I don’t AA'ant you to tell a lie, certainly.
But how about this ‘small remembrance’ that
you speak of? What’s that?”

“ Oh, nothing ; only a little locket I bought
for her.”

“With some of your hair in it?”

“Well, of course. Come noAv, there’s no
harm in that.”

“No; no harm. Do you think she will
wear it ?”

“ How can I tell ?”

“It may make her think it isn’t all at an
end, I’m afraid. If she always w'ears your
hair — ”

‘ ‘ By Jove, you’re too bad, Hardy. I wish
you had had to Avrite it yourself. It’s all very
easy to pull my letter to pieces, I dare say,
but — ”

“I didn’t Avant to read it, remember.”

“No more you did. I forgot. But I wish
3'ou Avould just Avrite doAvn now what you would
haA'e said.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

115

“ Yes, I think I see myself at it. By-the-
way, of course you have sent your letter?”

“ Yes, I sent it off before chapel.”

“I thought so. In that case I don’t think
we need trouble ourselves further with the form
of the document.”

“Oh, that’s only shirking. How do you
know I may not want it for the next occasion ?”
“ No, no ! Don’t let us begin laughing about
it. A man never ought to have to write such
letters twice in his life. If he has, why he may
get a good enough precedent for the second out
of the ‘ Complete Letter-writer.’ ”

“ So you won’t correct my copy ?”

“ No, not I.”

At this point in their dialogue. Captain Har-
dy appeared on the scene, and the party went
off to Drysdale’s to breakfast.

Captain Hardy’s visit to St. Ambrose was a
great success. He staid some four or five days,
and saw every thing that was to be seen, and
enjoyed it ail in a sort of reverent way which
was almost comic. Tom devoted himself to the
work of cicerone, and did his best to do the
work thoroughly. Oxford was a sort of Utopia
to the Captain, who was resolutely bent on see-
ing nothing but beauty and learning and wis-
dom within the precincts of the university. On
one or two occasions his faith was tried sorely
by the sight of young gentlemen gracefully ap-
parelled, dawdling along two together in low
easy pony carriages, or lying on their backs in
punts for hours, smoking, with not even a “Bell’s
Life” by them to pass the time. Dawdling and
doing nothing were the objects of his special ab-
horrence ; but with this trifling exception the
Captain continued steadily to behold towers, and
quadrangles, and chapels, and the inhabitants
of the colleges, through rose-colored spectacles.
His respect for a “regular education,” and for
the seat of learning at which it was dispensed,
was so strong, that he invested not only the tu-
tors, doctors, and proctors (of whom he saw lit-
tle except at a distance), but even the most
empty-headed under-graduate whose acquaint-
ance he made, with a sort of fancy halo of sci-
entific knowledge, and often talked to those
youths in a way which was curiously bewilder-
ing and embarrassing to them. Drysdalc was
particularly hit by it. He had humor and hon-
esty enough himself to appreciate the Captain,
but it was a constant puzzle to him to know
what to niake of it all.

“He’s a regular old brick, is the Captain,”
he said to Tom, on the last evening of the old
gentleman’s visit; “but, by Jove, I can’t help
thinking he must be poking fun at us half his
time. It is rather too rich to hear him talking
on as if we were all as fond of Greek as he
seems to be, and as if no man ever got drunk up
here.”

“I declare I think he believes it,” said Tom.
“You see we’re all careful enough before him.”
“ That son of his, too, must be a good fellow.
Don’t you see, he can never have peached. His
father was telling me last night what a comfort

it was to him to see that Jack’s poverty had
been no drawback to him. He had always told
him it would bo so among English gentlemen,
and now he found him living quietly and inde-
pendently, and yet on equal terras, and friends
with men far above him in rank and fortune,
‘like you, sir,’ the old boy said. By Jove,
Brown, I felt devilish foolish. I believe I blush-
ed, and it isn’t often I indulge in that sort of
luxury. If I weren’t ashamed of doing it now,
I should try to make friends with Hardy. But
I don’t know how to face him, and I doubt
whether he wouldn’t think me too much of a rip
to be intimate with.”

Tom, at his ow'ii special request, attended the
Captain’s departure, and took his seat opposite
to him and his son at the back of the South-
ampton coach, to accompany him a few miles
out of Oxford. For the first mile the Captain
was full of the pleasures of his visit, and of in-
vitations to Tom to come and see them in the
vacation. If he did not mind homely quarters
he would find a hearty welcome, and there W'as
no finer bathing and boating place on the coast.
If he liked to bring his gun, there were plenty
of blue rock-pigeons and sea-otters in the caves
at the Point. Tom protested with the greatest
sincerity that there was nothing he should en-
joy so much. Then the young men got down
to walk up Bagley Hill, and when they mount-
ed again found the Captain with a large leath-
er case in his hand, out of which he took tw^o
five-pound notes, and began pressing them on
his son, w'hile Tom tried to look as if he did not
know what was going on. For some time Har-
dy steadily refused, and the contention became
animated, and it was useless to pretend any long-
er not to hear.

“ Why, Jack, you’re not too proud, I hope, to
take a present from your o-wn father,” the Cap-
tain said at last.

“But, my dear father, I don’t want the mon-
ey. You make me a very good allowance al-
ready.”

“ Now, Jack, just listen to me and be reason-
able. You know a great many of your friends
have been very hospitable to me ; I could not
return their hospitality myself, but I wish you
to do so for me.”

“ Well, father, I can do that without this
money.”

“ Now, Jack,” said the Captain, pushing for-
ward the notes again, “ I insist on your taking
them. You will pain me very much if you don’t
take them.”

So the son took the notes at last, looking as
most men of his age would if they had just lost
them, while the father’s face was radiant as he
replaced his pocket-book in the breast-pocket in-
side his coat. His eye caught Tom’s in the
midst of the operation, and the latter could not
help looking a little confused, as if he had been
unintentionally obtruding on their privacy. But
the Captain at once laid his hand on his knee
and said :

“A young fellow is never the worse for hav-

116

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ing a ten-pound note to veer and haul on ; eh,
Mr. Brown ?”

“No, indeed, sir. A great deal better, I
think,” said Tom, and was quite comfortable
again. The Captain had no new coat that
summer, but he always looked like a gentle-
man.

Soon the coach stopped to take up a parcel
at a cross-road, and the young men got down.
They stood watching it until it disappeared
round a corner of the road, and then turned
back towards Oxford, and struck into Bagley
Wood, Hardy listening with evident pleasure to
his friend’s enthusiastic praise of his father.
But he was not in a talking humor, and they
were soon walking along together in silence.

This was the first time they had been alone
together since the morning after their reconcil-
iation ; so presently Tom seized the occasion to
recur to the subject which was uppermost in his
thoughts.

“ She has never answered my letter,” he be-
gan, abruptly.

“lam very glad of it,” said Hardy.

“ But why ?”

“Because, you know, you want it all broken
off completely.”

“Yes, but still she might have just ac-
knowledged it. You don’t know how hard it
is for me to keep away from the place.”

“My dear fellow, I know it must be hard
work, but you are doing the right thing.”

“ Yes, I hope so,” said Tom, with a sigh. “ I
haven’t been within a hundred yards of ‘ The
Choughs ’ this five days. The old lady must
think it so odd.”

Hardy made no reply. What could he say
but that no doubt she did?

“ Would you mind doing me a great favor?”
said Tom, after a minute.

“Any thing I can do. What is it ?”

“ Why, just to step round on our w'ay back —
I will stay as far off as you like — and see how
things are going on ; how she is.”

“Very well. Don’t you like this view of
Oxford? I always think it is the best of them
all.”

“No. You don’t see any thing of half the
colleges,” said Tom, who was very loath to
leave the other subject for the picturesque.

“But you get all the spires and towers so
well, and the river in the fore-ground. Look at
that shadow of a cloud skimming ‘over Christ-
church meadow. It’s a splendid old place, af-
ter all.”

“It may be from a distance, to an outsider,”
said Tom; “but I don’t know — it’s an awful-
ly chilly, deadening kind of place to live in.
There’s something in the life of the place that
sits on me like a weight, and makes me feel
dreary.”

“ How long have you felt that ? You’re com-
ing out in a new line.”

‘ ‘ I wish I were. I want a new line. I don’t
care a straw for cricket ; I hardly like pulling ;
and as for those wine-parties day after day, and

suppers night after night, they turn me sick to
think of.”

“You have the remedy in your own hands,
at any rate,” said Hardy, smiling.

“ How do you mean ?”

“Why, you needn’t go to them.”

“ Oh, one can’t help going to them. What
else is there to do?”

Tom waited for an answer, but his companion
only nodded to show that he was listening, as he
strolled on down the path, looking at the view.

“ I can say what I feel to you. Hardy. I al-
ways have been able, and it’s such a comfort to
me now. It was you who put these sort of
thoughts into my head, too, so you ought to
sympathize with me.”

“I do, my dear fellow. But you'll be all
right again in a few days.”

“Don’t you believe it. It isn’t only what you
seem to think, Hardy. You don’t know me so
well as I do you, after all. No, I’m not just
love-sick, and hipped because I can’t go and
see her. That has something to do with it, I
dare say, but it is the sort of shut-up selfish life
we lead here that I can’t stand. A man isn’t
meant to live only with fellows like himself,
with good allowances paid quarterly, and no
care but how to amuse themselves. One is old
enough for something better than that. I’m
sure.”

“No doubt,” said Hardy, with provoking taci-
turnity.

“ And the moment one tries to break through
it, one only gets into trouble.”

“Yes, there’s a good deal of danger of that,
certainly,” said Hardy.

“ Don’t you often long to be in contact with
some of the realities of life, with men and wom-
en who haven’t their bread-and-butter already
cut for them ? How can a place be a universi-
ty where no one can come up who hasn’t two
hundred a year or so to live on?”

“ You ought to have been at Oxford four
hundred years ago, when there were more thou-
sands here than we have hundreds.”

“ I don’t see that. It must have been ten
times as bad then.”

“Not at all. But it must have been a very
different state of things from ours; they must
have been almost all poor scholars, who worked
for their living, or lived on next to nothing.”

“ How do you really suppose they lived,
though ?”

“Oh, I don’t know. But how should you
like it now if we had fifty poor scholars at St.
Ambrose, besides us servitors — say ten tailors,
ten shoemakers, and so on, who came up from
love of learning, and attended all the lectures
with us, and worked for the present under-
graduates while they were hunting, and cricket-
ing, and boating ?”

“ "Well, I think it would be a very good thing
— at any rate, we should save in tailors’ bills.”
“Even if we didn't get our coats so well
built,” said Hardy, laughing. “ Well, Brown,
you have a most catholic taste, ‘ and a capacity

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

117

for taking in new truths ’ — all the elements of a
good Radical in you.”

“ I tell you I hate Radicals,” said Tom, in-
dignantly.

“Well, here we are in the town. I'll go
round by ‘ The Choughs ’ and catch you up be-
fore you get to High Street.”

Tom, left to himself, walked slowly on for a
little way, and then quickly back again in an
impatient, restless manner, and was within a few
yards of the corner where they had parted when
Hardy appeared again. He saw at a glanee
that something had happened.

“ What is it — she is not ill ?” he said, quick-

ly-

“No ; quite well, her aunt says.”

“You didn’t see her, then?”

“No. The faet is, she has gone home.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE EJfGLEBOTJRN CONSTABLE.

On the afternoon of a splendid day in the
early part of June, some four or five days after
the Sunday on which the morning service at
Englebourn was interrupted by the fire at Farm-
er Groves’s, David Johnson, tailor and constable
of the parish, was sitting at his work in a small
erection, half shed, half summer-house, which
leaned against the back of his cottage— not that
David had not a regular workshop with a win-
dow looking into the village street, and a regu-
lar counter close under it, on which passers-by
might see him stitching, and from which he
could gossip with them easily, as was his wont.
But although the constable kept the king’s
peace, and made garments of all kinds for his
livelihood — from the curate’s frock down to the
ploughboy’s fustians — he Avas addicted, for his
pleasure and solace, to the keeping of bees.
The constable’s bees inhabited a roAV of hives in
the narrow strip of garden Avhich ran away at
the back of the cottage. This strip of garden
was bordered along the whole of one side by
the rector’s premises. Now honest David loved
gossip well, and considered it a part of his
duty as constable to be well up in all events
and rumors which happened or arose wdthin
his liberties. But he loved his bees better
than gossip, and, as he w’as now in hourly ex-
pectation that they would be swarming, was
working, as has been said, in his summer-house,
that he' might be at hand at the critical moment.
The rough table on Avhich he was seated com-
manded a view of the hives ; his big scissors
and some shreds of velveteen lay near him on
the table, also the street-door key and an old
shovel, of which the uses will appear presently.

On his knees lay the black velveteen coat, the
Sunday garment of Harry Winburn, to which
he was fitting new sleeves. In his exertions at
the top of the chimney, in putting out the fire,
Harry had grievously damaged the garment in
question. The farmer had presented him with

five shillings on the occasion, which sum was
quite inadequate to the purchase of a new coat,
and Harry, being too proud to call the farmer’s
attention to the special damage which he had
suffered in his service, had contented himself
Avith bringing his old coat to be ncAV sleeved.

Harry Avas a favorite Avith the constable on
account of his intelligence and independence,
and because of his relations Avith the farmers
of Englebourn on the allotment question. Al-
though by his office the representative of laAv
and order in the parish, David Avas a man of the
people, and sympathized Avith the peasantry
more than with the farmers. He had passed
some years of his apprenticeship at Reading,
Avhere he had picked up notions on political and
social questions much ahead of the Englebourn
Avorthies. When he returned to his native vil-
lage, being a wise man, he had kept his neAv
lights in the back-ground, and consequently had
succeeded in the object of his ambition, and had
been appointed constable. His reason for seek-
ing the post Avas a desire to prove that the old
joke as to the manliness of tailors had no ap-
plication to his case, and this he had established
to the satisfaction of all the neighborhood by
the resolute manner in which, whenever called
on, he performed his duties. And, noAV that
his character Avas made and his position secure,
he Avas not so careful of betraying his leanings,
and had lost some custom among the farmers
in consequence of them.

The job on which he Avas employed natural-
ly turned his thoughts to Harry. He stitched
aAvay, noAv Aveighing in his mind Avhether he
should not go himself to Farmer GroA’es and
represent to him that he ought to give Harry a
neAv coat ; noAV rejoicing over the fact that the
rector had decided to let Harry have another
acre of the allotment land ; noAV speculating on
the attachment of his faA'orite to the gardener’s
daughter, and Avhether he could do any thing
to foi-Avard his suit. In the pursuit of Avhich
thoughts he had forgotten all about his bees,
when suddenly a great humming arose, folloAA'-
ed by a rush through the air like the passing of
an express train, Avhich recalled him to himself.
He jumped from the table, casting aside the
coat, and seizing the key and shovel, hurried
out into the garden, beating the tAvo together
Avith all his might.

The process in question, knoAvn in country
phrase as “ tanging,”.; is founded upon the be-
lief that the bees Avill not settle unless under the
influence of tliis peculiar music ; and the consta-
ble, holding faithfully to the popular belief, rush-
ed doAvn his garden, “tanging” as though his
life depended upon it, in the hopes that the
soothing sound would induce the SAA'arm to set-
tle at once on his OAvn apple-trees.

Is “ tanging ” a superstition or not ? People
learned in bees ought to knoAV, but I never hap-
pened to meet one Avho had settled the question.
It is curious hoAV such beliefs or superstitions fix
themselves in the popular mind of a country side,
and are held by Avise and simple alike. David

118

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

the constable tvas a most sensible and open-
minded man of his time and class, but Kemble
or Akerman, or other learned Anglo-Saxon
scholar, tvould have vainly explained to him that
“ tang ” is but the old word for “ to hold,” and
that the object of “tanging” is, not to lure the
bees with sweet music of key and shovel, but to
give notice to the neighbors that they have
swarmed, and that the owner of the maternal
hive means to hold on to his right to the emi-
grants. David would have listened to the lec-
ture with pity, and have retained unshaken be-
lief in his music.

In the present case, however, the “ tanging”
was of little avail, for the swarm, after wheeling
once or twice in the air, disappeared from the
eyes of the constable over the rector’s wall.
He went on “tanging ” violently for a minute or
two, and then paused to consider what was to
be done. Should lie get over the wall into the
rector’s garden at once, or should he go round
and ask leave to carry his search into the par-
sonage grounds? As a man and bee-fancier
he was on the )>oint of following straight at once,
over wall and fence ; but the constable \vas also
strong within him. He was not on the best of
terms with old Simon, the rector’s gardener,
and his late opposition to Miss Winter in the
matter of the singing also came into his mind.
So he resolved that the parish constable would
lose caste by disregarding his neighbor’s bounda-
ries, and was considering what to do next, when
he heard a footstep and short cough on the other
side of the wall which he recognized.

“Be you there, Maester Simon?” he called
out. Whereupon the walker on the other side
pulled up, and, after a second appeal, answered
shortly :

“E’es.”

“ Hev’ce seed aught o’ my bees? Thaay’ve
a bin’ and riz, and gone off someweres athert the
wall.”

“ E’es, I seen ’em.”

“Wer’ be ’em, then?”

“ Aal-amang wi’ ourn in the limes.”

“ Aal-amang wi’ yourn !” exclaimed the con-
stable. “Drattle ’em! Thaay be mwore
trouble than thaay be wuth.”

“ I knowed as thaay wnr yourn zoon as ever
I sot eyes on ’em,” old Simon went on.

“How did ’ee know ’em, then?” asked the
constable.

“ ’Cause thine be aal, zettin’ crass-legged,”
said Simon, with a chuckle. “Thee medst cam
and pick 'em all out if thee’st a mind to’t.”
Simon was mollified by his own joke, and
broke into a short, dry cachination, half-laugh,
half-cough ; while the constable, who was pleased
and astonished to find his neighbor in such a
good humor, hastened to get an empty hive and
a pair of hedger’s gloves — fortified with which he
left his cottage and made the best of his way, up
street towards the Rectory gate, hard by which
stood Simon’s cottage. The old gardener was
of an impatient nature, and the effect of the joke
had almost time to evaporate, and Simon was

fast relapsing into his usual state of mind to-
wards his neighbor before the latter made his
appearance.

“Wher’ hast been so long?” he exclaimed,
when the constable joined him.

“I seed the young missus and t’other young
lady a standin’ talkin’ afore the door,” said
David ; “ so I stopped back, so as not to disturve
’em.”

“ Be ’em gone in ? Who was ’em talkin’
to?”

“ To thy missus, and thy daarter too, I b’lieve
’twas. Thaay he both at whoam, bean’t ’em ?”

“ Like enough. But what was ’em zayin’ ?”

“I couldn’t heer nothin’ partic’lar, but I
judged as ’twas summat about Sunday and the
fire.”

“ ’Tis na use for thaay to go on fillin’ our
pleace wi’ bottles. I dwon’t mean to take no
mwore doctor’s stuff.”

Simon, it may be said, by-the-way, had ob-
stinately refused to take any medicine since his
fall, and had maintained a constant war on the
subject both with his own women and with Miss
Winter, whom he had impressed m.ore than ever
with a belief in his wrongheadedness.

“Ah ! and how be ’ee, tho’, Maester Simon ?”
said David ; “ I didn’t mind to ax afore. You
dwon’t feel no wus for your fall, I hopes ?”

“I feels a bit stiffish like, and as if summat
wur cuttin’ m’ at times, when I lifts up my
arms.”

“ ’Tis a mercy ’tis no wus,” said David ; “ we
bean’t so young nor lissom as we was, Maester
Simon.”

To which remark Simon replied by a grunt.
He disliked allusions to his age — a rare dislike
among his class in that part of the countiy.
Most of the people are fond of making them-
selves out older than they are, and love to dwell
on their experiences, and believe, as firmly as
the rest of us, that every thing has altered for
the worse in the parish and district since their
youth.

But Simon, though short of words and tem-
per, and an uncomfortable acquaintance in con-
sequence, was inclined to be helpful enough in
other ways. The constable, with his assistance,
had very soon hived his swarm of cross-legged
bees.

Then the constable insisted on Simon's com-
ing witli him and taking a glass of ale, which,
after a little coquetting, Simon consented to do.
So, after carrying his re-capture safely home,
and erecting the hive on a three-legged stand
of his own workmanship, he hastened to rejoin
Simon, and the two soon found themselves in
the bar of the “Red Lion.”

The constable wished to make the most of
this opportunity, and so began at once to pump
Simon as to his intentions with regard to his
daughter. But Simon was not easy to lead
in any way whatever, and seemed in a more
than usually no-bnsincss-of-yours line about his
daughter. Whether he had anyone in his eye
for her or not, David could not make out ; but

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

119

one thing he did make out, and it grieved him
much. Old Simon was in a touchy and un-
friendly state of mind against Harry, who, he
said, was foiling into bad ways, and beginning
to think much too much of his self. Wiiy was
he to be wanting more allotment ground than
any one else ? Simon bad himself given Harry
some advice on the point, but not to much pur-
pose, it would seem, as he summed up his no-
tions on the subject by the remark that, “ ’Twas
waste of soap to lather an ass.”

The constable now and then made a stand
for his young friend, but very judiciously ; and,
after feeling his way for some time, he came to
the conclusion — as, indeed, the truth was — that
Simon was jealous of Harry’s talent for growing
flowers, and had been driven into his present
frame of mind at hearing Miss Winter and her
cousin talking about the flowers at Dame Win-
burn’s under his very nose for the last four or
five days. They had spoken thus to interest
the old man, meaning to praise Harry to him.
The fact was, that the old gardener was one of
those men who never can stand hearing other
people praised, and think that all such praise
must be meant in depreciation of themselves.

When they had finished their ale the after-
noon was getting on, and the constable rose to
go back to his work ; while old Simon declared
his intention of going down to the hay-field, to
see how the mowing was getting on. He was
sure that the hay would never be made properly,
now that he couldn’t be about as much as usual.

In another hour the coat was finished, and
the constable, being uneasy in his mind, re-
solved to carry the garment home himself at
once, and to haA'e a talk with Dame Winburn.
So he wrapped the coat in a handkerchief, put
it under his arm, and set off down the village.

He found the dame busy with her washing,
and, after depositing his parcel, sat down on the
settle to have a talk with her. They soon got
on the subject which was always uppermost in
her mind, her son’s prospects, and she poured
out to the constable her troubles. First there
was this sweethearting after old Simon’s daugh-
ter-^not that Dame Winburn was going to say
any thing against her, though she might have
her thoughts as well as other folk, and for her
part she liked to see girls that were fit for some-
thing besides dressing themselves up like their
betters — but what worrited her was to see how
Harry took it to heart. He wasn’t like himself,
and she couldn’t see how it was all to end. It
made him fractious, too, and he was getting into
trouble about his work. He had left his regu-
lar place, and Avas gone mowing with a gang,
most of them men out of the parish that she
knew nothing about, and likely not to be the
best of company. And it Avas all A'ery Avell in
liarvest-time, Avhen they could go and earn good
Avages at moAving and reaping anywhere about,
and no man could eai-n better than her Harry;
but when it came to Avinter again she didn’t see
but Avhat he might find the Avant of a regular
place, and then tlio formers mightn’t take him

on ; and his OAvn land that he had got, and
seemed to think so much of, mightn’t turn out
all he thought it Avould ; and so, in fact, the old
lady Avas troubled in her mind, and only made
the constable more uneasy. He had a vague
sort of impression that he aa’us in some Avay an-
swerable for Harry, Avho Avas a good deal Avith
him, and Avas fond of coming about his place.
And although his cottage ha])pened to be next
to old Simon’s, Avhich might account for the
fact to some extent, yet the constable was con-
scious of having talked to his young friend on
many matters in a way which might have un-
settled him, and encouraged his natural tend-
ency to stand up for his own rights and inde-
pendence, and he kneAv Avell enough that this
temper was not the one Avhich Avas likely to keep
a laboring man out of trouble in the parish.

He did not alloAv his OAvn misgivings, how-
ever, to add to the AvidoAv’s troubles, but, on
the eontrary, cheered her by praising up Harry
as much as even she could desire, and prophe-
sying that all Avould come right, and that those
that lived would see her son as respected as any
man in the parish ; he shouldn’t be surprised,
indeed, if he Avere church-warden before he
died. And then, astonished at his OAvn bold-
ness, and feeling that he Avas not capable of any
higher flight of imagination, the constable rose
to tak^ his leave." He asked Avhere Harry Avas
Avorking, and, finding that he Avas at mowing in
the Danes’ Close, set ofif to look after him.
The kind-hearted constable could not sliake off
the feeling that something Avas going to happen
to Harry Avhieh Avould get him into trouble, and
he Avanted to assure himself that as yet nothing
had gone Avrong. Whenever one has this sort
of Amgue feeling about a friend, there is a natu-
ral and irresistible impulse to go and look after
him and to be Avith him.

The Danes’ Close Avas a part of the glebe, a
large field of some ten acres or so in extent,
close to the village. Tavo footpaths ran across
it, so that it. Avas almost common property, and
the village children considered it as much their
playground as the green itself. They trampled
the grass a good deal more than seemed endur-
able in the eyes of Simon, Avho managed the rec-
tor’s forming operations as Avell as the garden ;
but the children had their OAvn AA’ay, notAvith-
standing the threats he sometimes launched at
them. Miss Winter Avould liaA'e sooner lost all
the hay than have narroAAed their amusements.
It was the most difficult piece of moAving in
the parish, in consequence of the tramplings
and of the large crops it bore. The Danes, or
some other unknoAvn persons, had made the
land fat, perhaps Avith their carcasses, and the
benefit had lasted to the time of our story. At
any rate, the field bore splendid crops, and the
mowers always got an extra shilling an acre
for cutting it, by Miss Winter’s special order,
Avhich Avas paid by Simon in the most ungra-
cious manner, and Avith many grumblings that
it Avas enough to ruin all the moAA'crs in the
country-side.

]20

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

As tlie constable got over the stile into the
bay-field, a great part of his misgivings passed
out of his head. He was a simple bindly man,
whose heart lay open to all influences of scene
and weather, and the Danes’ Close, full of life
and joy and merry sounds, as seen under the
slanting rays of the evening sun, was just the
place to rub all the wrinkles out of him.

The constable, however, is not singular in
this matter.

What man among us all, if he will think the
matter over calmly and fairly, can honestly say
that there is any one spot on the earth’s surface
in which he has enjoyed so much real, whole-
some, happy life as in a hay-field? He may
have won renown on horseback or on foot at the
sports and pastimes in which Englishmen glory ;
he may have shaken off' all rivals, time after
time, across the vales of Aylesbury, or of Berks,
or any other of our famous hunting counties;
he may have stalked the oldest and shyest buck
in Scotch forests, and killed the biggest salmon
of the year in the Tweed, and trout in the
Thames ; he may have made topping averages
ill first-rate matches of cricket; or liave made
long and perilous marches, dear to memory, over
boggy moor, or mountain, or glacier ; he may
have successfully attended many breakfast-parties
within drive of Mayfair, on velvet lawns, sur-
rounded by all the fairy-land of pomp, and
beauty, and luxury, which London can pour out ;
he may have shone at private theatricals and at-
homes ; his voice may have sounded over hush-
ed audiences at St. Stephen’s or in the law-
courts ; or he may have had good times in any
other scenes of pleasure or triumph open to Eng-
glishmen ; but I much doubt whether, on put-
ting his recollections fairly and quietly togeth-
er, he would not say at last that the fresh-mown
hay-field is the place where he has spent the
most hours which he would like to live over
again, the fewest which he would wish to forget.

As children, we stumble about the new-mown
hay, revelling in the many colors of the pros-
trate grass and wild flowers, and in the power
of tumbling where we please without hurting
ourselves : as small boys, we pelt one another,
and the village school-girls, and our nurse-maids,
and young lady cousins with the hay, till, hot
and weary, we retire to tea or syllabub beneath
the shade of some great oak or elm standing up
like a monarch out of the fair pasture ; or, fol-
lowing the mowers, we rush with eagerness on
the treasures disclosed by the scythe-stroke — the
nest of the unhappy late-laying titlark, or care-
less field-mouse : as big boys, we toil ambitious-
ly with the spare forks and rakes, or climb into
the wagons and receive with open arms the deli-
cious load as it is pitched up from beloAv, and
rises higher and higher as we pass along the
long lines of haycocks; a year or two later we
are strolling there with our first sweethearts, our
souls and tongues loaded with sweet thoughts
and soft speeches ; we take a turn with the scythe
as the bronzed mowers lie in the shade for their
short rest, and willingly pay our footing for the

feat. Again, we come back with book in pock-
et, and our own children tumbling about as wo
did before them ; now romping with them, and
smothering them with the sweet-smelling load —
now musing and reading and dozing away the de-
licious summer evenings. And so shall we not
come back to the end, enjoying as grandfathers
the love-making and the rompings of younger
generations yet?

Were any of us ever really disappointed or
melancholy in a hay-field? Did we ever lie
fairly back on a hay-cock and look up into the
blue sky, and listen to the merry sounds, the
whetting of scythes, and the laughing prattle of
women and children, and think evil thoughts of
the world or our brethren ? Not we ! or if we
have so done, we ought to be ashamed of our-
selves, and deserve never to be out of town again
during hay-harvest.

There is something in the sights and sounds
of a hay-field which seems to touch the same
chord in one as Lowell’s lines in the “Lay of
Sir Launfal,” which end :

“For a cap and bells our lives we pay ;

We wear out our lives with toiling and ta'skiirg ;

It is only Heaven that is given away ;

It is only God may be had for the asking.

There is no price set on the lavish summer,

And June may be had by the poorest comer.”

But the philosophy of the hay-field remains
to be written. Let us hope that whoever takes
the subject in hand will not dissipate all its
sweetness in the process of the inquiry wherein
the charm lies.

The constable had not the slightest notion of
speculating on his own sensations, but was very
glad, neveriheless, to find his spirits rising as he
stepped into the Danes’ Close. All the hay
was down, except a small piece in the farther
corner, which the mowers were upon. There
were groups of children in many parts of the
held, and women to look after them, mostly sit-
ting on the fresh swarth, working and gossiping,
while the little ones played about. He had not
gone twenty yards before he was stopped by the
violent crying of a child ; and, turning towards
the voice, he saw a little girl of six or seven, who
had strayed from her mother, scrambling out of
the ditch, and wringing her hands in an agony
of pain and terror. The poor little thing had
fallen into a bed of nettles, and was very much
frightened, and not a little hurt. The constable
caught her up in his arms, soothing her as well
as he could, and, hurrying along till he found
some dock-leaves, sat down with her on his knee,
and rubbed Iier hands with the leaves, repeating
the old saw :

“ Out nettle,

In dock :

Dock shall ha’

A new smock ;

Nettle shan’t
Ha’ naiTun’.”

What with the rubbing, and the constable’s
kind manner, and listening to the doggerel
rhyme, and feeling that nettle would get her
deserts, the little thing soon ceased crying. But
several groups had been drawn towards the

TOM BROWN AT OXi'ORD.

12L

place, and among the rest came Miss Wintci
and her cousin, ■who had been within hearing of
the disaster. The constable began to feel very
nervous and uncomfortable when he looked up
from his cliaritable occupation and suddenly
■ found the rector’s daughter close to him. But
his nervousness was uncalled for. The sight
of what he was about, and of the tender way in
which he w'as handling the child, drove all re-
membrance of his heresies and contumaciousness
in the matter of psalmody out of her head. She
greeted him with frankness and cordiality, and
presently — when ho had given up his charge to
the mother, who was inclined at first to be hard
with the poor little sobbing truant — came up,
and said she wished to speak a few words to him.

■ David was highly delighted at Miss Winter’s
manner; but he walked along by her side, not
quite comfortable in his mind, for fear lest she
should start the old subject of dispute, and then
his duty as a public man would have to be done,
at all risk of offending her. He was much com-
forted when she began by asking him whether he
had seen much of Widow Winburn’s son lately.

David admitted that he generally saw him
every day.

Did he know that he had left his place, and
had quarrelled with Mr. Tester ?

Yes, David knew that Harry had had words
with Farmer Tester; but Farmer Tester was a
‘sort that it was very hard not to have words
with.

“ Still, it is very bad, you know, for so young
a man to be quarrelling with the farmers,” said
Miss Winter,

“ ’Twas the varmer as quarrelled wi’ he, you
see, miss,” David answered, “which makes all
the odds. He cum to Harry all in a fluster,
and said as how he must drow up- the land as
he’d a’got, or he’s place — one or t’other on ’em.
And so you see, miss, as Harry wur kind o’ druv
to it. ’Twarn’t likely as |jie wur to drow up the
land now as he wur just reppin’ the benefit ov
it, and all for Varmer Tester’s place, wich be no
sich gurt things, miss, arter all.”

“Very likely not; but I fear it may hinder
his getting employment. The other farmers
will not take him on now if they can help it.”

“No; thaay falls out wi’ one another bad
enough, and calls all manner o’ names. But
thaay can’t abide a poor man to speak his mind
nor take his own part, not one on ’em,” said
David, looking at Miss Winter, as if doubtful
how she might take his strictures ; but she went
on, without any show of dissent ;

“I shall try to get him work for my fother;
but I am sorry to find that Simon does not seem
to like the idea of taking him on. It is not
easy always to make out Simon’s meaning.
When I spoke to him, he said something about
a bleating sheep losing a bite ; but I should
think this young man is not much of a talker in
general — ” she paused.

“That’s true, miss,” said David, energetical-
ly ; “ there ain’t a quieter spoken or steadier
man at his work in the parish.”

“I’m very glad to hear you say so,” said
Miss Winter, “and I hope we may soon do
something for him. But what I want you to
do just now is to speak a word to him about the
company he seems to bo getting into.”

The constable looked somewhat aghast at this
speech of Miss Winter’s, but did not answer, not
knowing to what she was alluding. She saw
that he did not understand, and went on —

“He is mowing to-day with a gang from the
heath and the next parish ; I am sure they arc
very bad men for him to be with. I was so
vexed when I found Simon had given them the
job ; but he said they would get it all down in
a day and be done with it, and that was all he
cared for.”

“And ’tis a fine day’s work, miss, for five
men,” said David, looking over the field ; “ and
'tis good work too, you mind the swarth else,”
and he picked up a handful of the fallen grass
to show her how near the ground it was cut.

“ Oh, yes, I have no doubt they are very good
mowers, but they are not good men, I’m sure.
There, do you see now who it is that is bringing
them beer? I hope you will see Widow Win-
burn’s son, and speak to him, and try to keep
him out of bad company. We should be all so
sorry if he were to get into trouble'.”

David promised to do his best, and Miss Win-
ter wished him good-evening, and rejoined her
cousin.

“Well, Katie, will he do your behest?”
“Yes, indeed; and I think he is the best
person to do it. Widow Winburn thinks her
son minds him more than any one.”

“ Do you know, I don’t think it will ever go
right. I’m sure she doesn’t care the least for
him.”

“ Oh, you have only just seen her once for
two cr three minutes.”

“ And then that wretched old Simon is so
perverse about it,” said the cousin. “ You will
never manage him.”

“ He is very provoking, certainly ; but I get
my own way generally, in spite of him. And
it is such a perfect plan, isn’t it ?”

“ Oh, charming ! if you can only bring it
about.”

“Now we must be really going home; papa
will be getting restless.” So the young ladies
left the hay-field deep in castle-building for
Harry Winburn and the gardener’s daughter.
Miss Winter being no more able to resist a tale
of true love than her cousin or the rest of her
sex. They would have been more or less than
women if they had not taken an interest in so
absorbing a passion as poor Harry’s. By the
time they reached the Rectory gate they had in-
stalled him in the gardener’s cottage with his
bride and mother (for there ■would be plenty of
room for the widow, and it would be so conve-
nient to have the laundry close at hand), and
had pensioned old Simon, and sent him and his
old wife to wrangle away the rest of their time
in the widow’s cottage. Castle-building is a
delightful and harmless exercise.

122

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

Meantime David the constable had fjone to-
wards the mowers, who were taking a short rest
before finishing off the last half-acre which re-
mained standing. The person whose appear-
ance had so horrified Miss Winter was drawing
beer for them from a small barrel. This was
an elderly raw-boned woman, with a skin
burnt as brown as that of any of the mowers.
She wore a man’s hat and spencer, and had a
strong harsh voice, and altogether was not a
prepossessing person. She went by the name
of Daddy Cowell in the parish, and had been for
years a proscribed person. She lived up on the
heath, often worked in the fields, took in lodgers,
and smoked a short clay pipe. These eccentrici-
ties, when added to her half-male clothing, were
quite enough to account for the sort of outlawry
in which she lived. Miss Winter, and other
good people of Englebourn, believed her capa-
ble of any crime, and the children were taught
to stop talking and playing, and run away when
she came near them ; but the constable, who
had had one or two search-warrants to execute
in her house, and had otherwise had frequent
occasions of getting acquainted with her in the
course of his duties, had by no means so evil
an opinion of her. He had never seen much
harm in her, he had often been heard to say,
and she never made pretense to much good.
Nevertheless, David was by no means pleased
to see her acting as purveyor to the gang which
Harry had joined. Fie knew how such contact
would damage liim in the eyes of all the paro-
chial respectabilities, and was anxious to do his
best to get him clear ofit.

With these views he went up to the men,
who were resting under a large elm-tree, and
complimented them on their day’s work. They
were themselves well satisfied with it, and with
one another. When men have had sixteen
hours’ or so hard mowing in company^ and none
of them can say that the others have not done
their fair share, they are apt to respect one an-
other more at the end of it. It was Harry’s
first day with this gang, w'ho were famous for
going about the neighborhood, and doing great
feats in hay and wheat harvest. They were
satisfied with him and lie witli them., none the
less so probably in his present frame of mind,
because they also were loose on the world, serv-
ants of no regular master. It was a bad time
to make his approaches, the constable saw ; so,
after sitting by Harry until the gang rose to fin-
ish off their work in the cool of the evening, and
asking him to come round by his cottage on his
Avay home, which Harry promised to do, he
walked back to the village.

CHAPTEE XXIV.

THE SCIIOOI.S.

There is no more characteristic spot in Ox-
ford than tlie quadrangle of the schools. Doubt-
less in the times when the university held and

exercised the privileges of infang-thief and out-
fang-thief, and other such Old Worldrights, there
must have been a place somewhere within the
liberties devoted to examinations even more ex-
citing than the great-go. But since ahna mater
has ceased to take cognizance of “ treasons, in-
surrections, felonies, and mayhem,” it is here,
in that fateful and inexorable quadrangle, and
the buildings which surround it, that she exer-
cises her most potent spells over the spirits of
her children. I suppose that a man being tried
for his life must be more uncomfortable than an
under-graduate being examined for his degree,
and that to be hung — perhaps even to be pillo-
ried— must be worse than to be plucked. But,
after all, the feelings in both cases must be es-
sentially the same, only more intense in the for-
mer. ; and an institution which can examine a
man (in literis humanioribus ; in humanities, so
called) once a year for two or three days at a
time, has nothing to complain of, though it has
no longer the power of hanging him at once out
of hand.

The schools’ quadrangle is for the most part
a lonely place. Men pass through the melan-
choly iron gates by which that quadrangle is en-
tered on three sides — from Broad Street, from
the Eatclitfe, and from New College Lane —
when necessity leads them that way, with alert
step and silently. No nurse-maids or children
play about it. Nobody lives in it. Only when
the examinations are going on you may see a
few hooded figures who walk as though con-
scious of the powers of academic life and death
which they wield, and a good deal of shudder-
ing under-graduate life flitting about the place
— luckless youths, in white ties and bands, who
are undergoing the peine forte et dure with dif-
ferent degrees of composure ; and their friends
who are there to look after them. You may go
in and w'atch the torture yourself, if you are so
minded, for the viva voce schools ai'e open to the
public. But one such experiment will be enough
for you, unless you are very hard-hearted. The
sight of the long table, behind which sit Minos,
Rhadamanthus and Co., full-robed, stern of face,
soft of speech, seizing their victim in turn — now
letting him run a little way, as a cat does a
mouse, then drawing him back, with claw of
wily question, probing him on this side and that,
turning him inside out — the row of victims op-
posite, pale or flushed, of anxious or careless
mien, according to temperament, but one and
all on the rack as they bend over the allotted
paper, or read from the well-thumbed book — the
scarcely-less-to-be-pitied row behind of future
victims, “sitting for the schools,” as it is called,
ruthlessly brought hither by statutes, to watch
the sufferings they must hereafter undergo —
should fill the friend of suffering humanity with
thoughts too deep for tears. Tlirough the long
day till four o’clock, or later, the torture lasts.
Then the last victim is dismissed ; the men who
are “ sitting for the schools ” fly all ways to their
colleges, silently, in search of relief to their over-
wrought feelings — ])robably also of beer, the un-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

123

dcr-gradnate's universal specific. The beadles
close those ruthless doors for a mysterious half-
hour on the examiners. Outside in the quad-
rangle collect by twos and threes the friends of
the victims, waiting for the re-opening of the
door, and the distribution of the “ testamurs.”
The testamurs, lady readers will be pleased to
understand, are certificates under the hands of
the examiners that your sons, brothers, hus-
bands, perhaps, have successfully undergone the
torture. But, if husbands, oh ! go not your-
selves, and send not your sons to wait for the
testamur of the head of your house ; for Oxford
has seldom seen a sight over which she would
more willingly draw the veil with averted face
than that of the youth rushing wildly, dissolved
in tears, from tlie schools’ quadrangle, and
shouting “Mamma! papa’s plucked! papa’s
plucked !”

The examination is nearly over which is to
decide the academical fate of some of our char-
acteVs ; the paper-work of the candidates for
honors has been going on for the last week.
Every morning our three St. Ambrose ac-
quaintances have mustered with the rest for
the anxious day’s work, after such breakfasts
as they have been able to eat under the cir-
cumstances. They take their work in very dif-
ferent ways. Grey rushes nervously hack to
his rooms whenever he is out of the schools for
ten minutes, to Jook up dates and dodges. He
worries himself sadly over every blunder which
he discovers himself to have made, .and sits up
nearly all night cramming, always hoping for a
better to-morrow. ‘Blake keeps up his affect-
ed carelessness to the last, quizzing the exam-
iners, laughing over the shots he has been mak-
ing in the last paper. His shots, it must be
said, turn out well for the most part ; in the
taste-paper particularly, as they compare notes,
he seems to have almost struck the bull’s-eye in
his answers to one or two questions which
Hardy and Grey have passed over altogether.
When he is wide of the mark, he passes it off
with some jesting remark, “ that a fool can ask
in five minutes more questions than a wise
,^man can answer in a week,” or wish “ that the
examiners would play fair, and change sides of
the table for an hour with the candidates, for
a finish.” But he, too, though he does it on
the sly, is cramming with his coach at every
available spare moment. Hardy had finished
his reading a full thirty-six hours before the
first day of paper-work, and had braced him-
self for the actual struggle by two good nights’
rest and a long day on the river with Tom.
He had worked hard from the first, and so had
really mastered his books. And now, feeling
that he has fairly and honestly done his best,
and that if he fails it will be cither from bad
luck or natural incapacity, and not from his
own fault, he manages to keep a cooler head
than any of his companions in trouble.

The week’s paper-work passes off uneventful-
ly : then comes the viva voce Avork for the can-
didates for honors. They go in, in alphabet-

ical order, four a day, for one more day’s work,
the hardest of all, and then there is nothing
more to do but wait patiently for the class-list.
On these days there is a good attendance in
the inclosed space to which the public are ad-
mitted. The front seats are often occupied by
the private tutors of the candidates, who are
there, like New-market trainers, to see the per-
formance of their stables, marking how each
colt bears pressing, and comports himself when
the pinch comes. They watch the examin-
ers, too, carefully, to see what line they take,
whether science, or history, or scholarship is
likely to tell most, that they may handle the
rest of their starters accordingly. Behind
them, for the most part, on the hindermost
benches of the flight of raised steps, anxious
younger brothers and friends sit, for a few min-
utes at a time, flitting in and out in much un-
rest, and making the ohjccts of their solicitude
more nervous than ever by their sympathy.

It is now the afternoon of the second day of
the viva voce examinations in honors. Blake
is one of the men in. His tutor. Hardy, Grey,
Tom, and other St. Ambrose men, have all
been in the schools more or less during his ex-
amination, and now Hardy and Tom are Avail-
ing outside the doors for the issuing of the
testamurs.

The group is small enough. It is so much
of course that a class-man should get his testa-
mur that there is no excitement about it;
generally the man himself stops to receiA'e it.

The only anxious faces in the group are Tom’s
and Hardy’s. They haA-e not exchanged a
Avord for the last feAv minutes in their short
Avalk before the door. Noav the examiners
come out and Avalk aAA^ay toAvards their col-
leges, and the next minute the door again
opens and the clerk of the schools appears Avith
the slips of paper in his hand.

“Noav you’ll see if I’m not right,” said
Hardy, as they gathered to the door Avith the
rest. “I tell you there isn’t the least chance
for him.”

The clerk read out the names inscribed on
the testamurs which he held, and handed them
to the OAvners.

“ HaA^en’t you one for Mr. Blake of St. Am-
brose?” said Tom, desperately, as the clerk
Avas closing the door.

“No, sir; none but those I have just gh^en
out,” ansAA’ered the clerk, shaking his head.
The door closed, and they turned aAvay in si-
lence for the first minute.

“I told you hoAV R Avould be,” said Hardy,
as they passed out of the south gate into the
Ratcliffe Quadrangle.

“But he seemed to be doing so aa’cII when I
AA'as in.”

“You Avere not there at the time. I thought
at first they Avould have sent him- out of the
schools at once.”

“ In his diA'initA', wasn’t it?”

“Yes; he Avas asked to repeat one of the
Articles, and didn’t knoAV three words of it.

124

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

From that moment I saw it was all over. The
examiner and he both lost their tempers, and
it went from bad to worse, till the examiner re-
marked that he could have answered one of the
questions he was asking when he was ten years
old, and Blake replied, so could he. They

gave him a paper in divinity afterwards, but
you could see there was no chance for him.”
“Poor fellow! what will he do, do you
think ? How will he take it ?”

“ I can’t tell. But Fm afraid it will be a
very serious matter for him. He was the
ablest man in our year, too. What a pity !”
They got into St. Ambrose just as the bell for

afternoon chapel was going down, and went in.
Blake was there and one look showed him what
had happened. In fact he had expected noth-
ing else all day since his breakdown in the Ar-
ticles. Tom couldn’t help watching him dur-
ing chapel ; and afterwards, on that evening, ac-

knowledged to a friend that, whatever else you
might think of Blake, there was no doubt about
his gameness.

After chapel he loitered outside the door in
the quadrangle, talking just as usual, and be-
fore hall he loitered on the steps in well-feigned
carelessness. Every»body else was thinking of
his breakdown ; some witli real sorrow and sym-

VIVA VOCE.’ IN THE ‘schools.’

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

125

pathy ; others as of any other nine-clays’ won-
der— pretty much as if the favorite for the Der-
by had broken down ; others with ill-concealed
triumph, for Blake had many enemies among
the men. He himself was conscious enough of
what they were thinking, but maintained his
easy, gay manner through it all, though the ef-
fort it cost him was tremendous. The only al-
lusion he made to Avhat had happened which
Tom heard was when he asked him to wine.

“ Are you engaged to-night. Brown ?” he
said. Tom answered in the negative. “ Come
to me, then,” he went on. “You won’t get
another chance in St; Ambrose. I have a few
bottles of old wine left ; we may as well floor
them : they won’t bear moving to a hall with
their master.”

And then he turned to some other men and
asked them — every one, in fact, whom he came
across, especially the dominant fast set with
whom he had chiefly lived. These young gen-
tlemen (of whom we had a glimpse at the out-
set, but whose company we have carefully avoid-
ed ever since, seeing that their sayings and do-
ings were of a kind of which the less said the
better) had been steadily going on in their way,
getting more and more idle, reckless, and inso-
lent. Their doings had been already so scan-
dalous on several occasions as to call for solemn
meetings of the college authorities ; but, no
vigorous measures having followed, such delib-
erations had only made matters worse, and
given the men a notion that they could do what
they pleased with impunity. This night the
climax had come; it was as though the flood
of misrule had at last broken banks and over-
flowed the whole college.

For two hours the wine-party in Blake’s large
ground-floor rooms was kept up with a wild,
reckless mirth, in keeping with the host’s tem-
per. Blake was on his mettle. He had ask-
ed every man with whom he had a speaking
acquaintance, as if he wished to face out his
disaster at once to the whole world. Many of
the men came feeling uncomfortable, and would
sooner have staid away and treated the pluck as
a real misfortune. But after aU Blake was the
best judge of how he liked it to be treated, and,
if he had a fancy for giving a great wine on the
oecasion, the civilest thing to do was to go to
it. And so they went, and wondered as much
as he could desire at the brilliant coolness of
their host, speculating and doubting, neverthe-
less, in their own secret hearts whether it wasn’t
acting, after all. Acting it was, no doubt, and
not worth the doing; no acting is. But one
must make allowances. No two men take a
thing just alike, and very few can sit down
quietly when they have lost a fall in life’s wres-
tle, and say, “ Well, here I am, beaten no doubt
this time — by my own fault too. Now take a
good look at me, my good friends, as I know
you all want to do, and say your say out, for I
mean getting up again directly and having an-
other turn at it.”

Blake drank fi'eely himself, and urged his

guests to drink, which was a superfluous courte-
sy for the most part. Many of the men left
his rooms considerably excited. They had dis-
persed for an hour or so to billiards, or a stroll
in the town, and at ten o’clock reassembled at
supper parties, of which there were several in
college this evening, especially a monster one
at Chanter’s rooms — a “ Champagne supper,”
as he had carefully and ostentatiously an-
nounced on the cards of invitation.

This flaunting the Champagne in their faces
had been resented by Drysdale and others, who
drank his Champagne in tumblers, and then
abused it and clamored for beer in the middle
of the supper. Chanter, whose prodigality in
some ways was only exceeded by his general
meanness, had lost his temper at this demand,
and insisted that, if they wanted beer, they
might send for it themselves, for he wouldn’t
pay for it. This protest was treated with up-
roarious contempt, and gallons of ale soon made
their appearance in college jugs and tankards.
The tables were cleared, and songs (most of
them of more than doubtful character), cigars,
and all sorts of compounded drinks, from claret
cup to egg flip, succeeded. The company, re-
cruited constantly as men came into college,
was getting more and more excited every min-
ute. The scouts cleared away and carried oflf
all relics of the supper, and then left ; still the
revel went on, till, by midnight, the men were
ripe for any mischief or folly which those among
them who retained any brains at all could sug-
gest. The signal for breaking up was given
by the host’s falling from his seat. Some of
the men rose with a shout- to put him to bed,
which they accomplished with difficulty, after
dropping him several times, and left him to
snore off the effects of his debauch with one of
his boots on. Others took to doing what mis-
chief occurred to them in his rooms. One man,
mounted on a chair with a cigar in his mouth
which had gone out, was employed in pouring
the contents of a Champagne bottle with un-
steady hand into the clock on the mantel-piece.
‘Chanter \^s a particular man in this sort of
furniture, and his clock was rather a specialty.
It was a large bronze figure of Atlas, support-
ing the globe in the shape of a time-piece.
Unluckily, the maker, not anticipating the sort
of test to which his work would be subjected,
had ingeniously left the hole for winding up in
the top of the clock, so that unusual facilities
existed for drowning the world-carrier, and he
was already almost at his last tick. One or
two men were morally aiding and abetting, and
physically supporting the experimenter on
clocks, who found it difficult to stand to his
work by himself. Another knot of young gen-
tlemen stuck to the tables, and so continued to
shout out scraps of song, sometimes standing
on their chairs and sometimes tumbling off
them. Another set were' employed on the
amiable work of pouring beer and sugar into
three new pairs of polished leather dress-boots,
with colored tops to them, which they discover-

12G

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ed in the dressing-room. Certainly, as they re-
marked, Chanter could have no possible use for
so many dress-boots at once, and it was a pity
the beer should be wasted ; but on the whole,
perhaps, the materials were never meant for
combination, and had better have been kept
apart. Others had gone away to break into
the kitchen, headed by one who had just come
into college and vowed he would have some
supper ; and others, to screw up an unpopular
tutor, or to break into the rooms of some inof-
fensive freshman. The remainder mustered on
the grass in the quadrangle, and began playing
leap-frog and larking one another. Among
these last was our hero, who had been at Blake’s
wine and one of the quieter supper parties ;
and, though not so far gone as most of his com-
panions, was by no means in a state in which
he would have cared to meet the Dean. lie
lent his heaity aid, accordingly, to swell the
noise and tumult, which was becoming some-
thing out of the way even for St. Ambrose’s.
As the leap-frog was flagging, Drysdale sudden-
ly appeared, carrying some silver plates which
were used on solemn occasions in the common
room, and allowed to be issued on special ap-
plication for gentlemen-commoners’ parties. A
rush was made towards him.

“Hallo, here’s Drysdale wdth lots of swag,”
shouted one. “ What are you going to do with
it?” cried another. Drysdale paused a moment
with the peculiarly sapient look of a tipsy man
who has suddenly lost the thread of his ideas,
and then suddenly broke out with :

“ Hang ‘it ! I forget. But let’s play at quoits
with them.”

The proposal was received with applause, and
the game began, but Drysdale soon left it. He
had evidently some notion in his head which
would not suffer him to turn to any thing else
till he had carried it out. He went off, accord-
ingly, to Chanter’s rooms, while the quoits went
on in the front quadrangle.

About this time, however, the Dean and bur-
sar, and the tutors who lived in college, began
to be conscious that something unuafial was go-
ing on- They were quite used to distant cho-
ruses, and great noises in the men’s rooms, and
to a fair amount of shouting and skylarking in
the quadrangle, and were long-suffering men,
not given to interfering; but there must be an
end to all endurance, and the state of things
W'hich had arrived could no longer be met by a
turn in bed and a growl at the uproars and fol-
lies of under-graduates.

Presently some of the rioters on the grass
caught sight of a figure gliding along the side
of the quadrangle towards the Dean’s staircase.
A shout arose that tlie enemy tvas up, but little
heed was paid to it by the greater number.
Tlien another figure passed from the Dean’s
staircase to the porter’s lodge. Those of the
men who had any sense lefi saw that it was time
to quit, and, after warning the rest, went off to-
wards their rooms. Tom, on his way to his
staircase, caught sight of a figure seated in a re-

mote corner of the inner quadrangle, and made
for it, impelled by natural curiosity. He found
Drysdale seated on the ground with several sil-
ver tankards by his side, employed to the best
of his powers in digging a hole with one of the
college carving-knives.

“ Hallo, Drysdale ! what are you up to?” he
shouted, laying his hand on his shoulder.

“Providing for poshterity,” replied Drys-
dale, gravely, without looking up.

“ What the deuce do you mean? Don’t be
such an ass ! The Dean will be out in a min-
ute. Get up and come along.”

“ I tell you, old fellow,” said Drysdale, some-
what inarticulately, and driving his knife into
the ground again, “ the dons are going to spout
the college plate. So I am burying tliese arti-
cles for poshterity — ”

“ Hang posterity !” said Tom ; “come along
directly, or you’ll be caught and rusticated.”

“Go to bed. Brown — you’re drunk. Brown,”
replied Drysdale, continuing his work, and strik-
ing the carving-knife into the ground so close
to his own thigh that it made Tom shudder.

“ Here they are, then !” he cried the next mo-
ment, seizing Drysdale by the arm, as a rush of
men came through the passage into the back
quadrangle, shouting and tumbling along, and
making in small groups for the different stair-
cases. The Dean and two of the tutors follow-
ed, and the porter bearing a lantern. There
was no time to be lost ; so Tom, after one more
struggle to pull Drysdale up and hurry him off,
gave it up, and, leaving him to his fate, ran
across to his own staircase.

For the next half-hour the Dean and his par-
ty patrolled the college, and succeeded at last in
restoring order, though not without some un-
dignified and disagreeable passages. The lights
on the staircases, which generally burnt all night,
were of course put out as they approached. On
the first staircase which they stormed the por-
ter’s lantern was knocked out of his hand by an
unseen adversary, and the light put out on the
bottom stairs. On the first landing the bursar
trod on a small terrier belonging to a fast fresh-
man, and the dog naturally thereupon bit the
bursar’s leg ; while his master and other en fants
perdus, taking advantage of the diversion, rush-
ed down the dark stairs, past the party of order,
and into the quadrangle, where they scattered
amidst a shout of laughter. While the porter
was gone for a light, the Dean and his party
rashly ventured on a second ascent. Here an
unexpected catastrophe awaited them. On the
top landing lived one of the steadiest men in
college, whose door had been tried shortly be-
fore. He had been roused out of his first sleep,
and, vowing vengeance on the next comers,
stood behind his oak, holding his brown George,
or huge earthenware receptacle, half-full of dir-
ty water, in which his bedmaker had been wash-
ing up his tea-things. Hearing stealthy steps
and whisperings on the stairs below, he sudden-
ly threw open his oak, discharging the whole
contents of his brown George on tlie approach-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

127

ing authorities, with a shout of, “ Take that for
your skulking.”

The exasperated Dean and tutors rushing on,
seized their astonished and innocent assailant,
and, after receiving explanations and the otier
of clean towels, hurried off again after the real
enemy. And now the porter appeared again
with a light, and, continuing their rounds, they
apprehended and disarmed Drysdale, collected
the college plate, marked down others of the
rioters, visited Chanter’s rooms, held a parley
with the one of their number who was screwed
up in his rooms, and discovered that the bars
had been wrenched out of the kitchen v/indow.
After which they retired to sleep on their indig-
nation, and quiet settled down again on the an-
cient and venerable college.

The next morning at chapel many of the rev-
ellers met ; in fact, there was a fuller attend-
ance than usual, for every one felt that some-
thing serious must be impending. After such
a night the dons must make a stand, or give up
altogether. The most reckless only of the fast
set were absent. St. Cloud was thei'e, dressed
even more precisely than usual, and looking as
if he were in the habit of going to bed at ten,
and had never heard of milk-punch. Tom turn-
ed out not much the worse himself, but in his
heart feeling not a little ashamed of the whole
business — of the party, the men, but, above all,
of himself. He thrust the shame back, how-
ever, as well as he could, and put a cool face on
it. Probably most of the men were in much
the same state of mind. Even in St, Ambrose’s,
reckless and vicious as the college had become,
by far the greater part of the under-graduates
Avould gladly have seen a change in the direc-
tion of order and decency, and were sick of the
wretched license of doing right in their own
eyes, and wrong in every other person’s.

As the men trooped out of chapel, they form-
ed in corners of the quadrangle, except the read-
ing set, who went off quietly to their rooms.
There was a pause of a minute or two. Nei-
ther principal, dean, tutor, nor fellow followed
as on ordinary occasions. “They’re hatching
something in the outer chapel,” said one.

“ It’ll be a coarse time for Chanter, I take
it,” said another.

“Was your name sent to the buttery for his
supper ?”

No, I took d — d good care of that,” said St.
Cloud, who was addressed.

“ Drysdale was caught, wasn’t he ?”

“ So I hear, and nearly frightened the Dean
and the porter out of their wits by staggering af-
ter them with a carving-knife.”

“ He’ll be sacked, of course.”

“ Much he’ll care for that."

“ Here they come, then. By Jove, how black
they look !”

The authorities now came out of the ante-
chapel door, and walked slowlj'’ across towards
the Principal’s house in a body. At this mo-
ment, as ill-luck would have it. Jack trotted into
the front quadrangle, dragging after him the light

steel chain with which he was usually fastened
up in Drysdale’s scout’s room at night. He
came innocently towards one and another of the
groups, and retired from each much astonished
at the low growl with which his acquaintance
was repudiated on all sides.

“ Porter, whose dog is that?” said the Dean,
catcliing sight of him.

“ Mr. Drysdale’s dog, sir, I tliink, sir,” an-
swered the porter.

“Probably the animal who bit me last night,”
said the bursar. His knowledge of dogs was
small ; if Jack had fastened on him he would
probably have been in bed from the effects,

“Turn the dog out of college,” said the
Dean.

“ Please, sir, he’s a very savage dog, sir,” said
the porter, whose respect for Jack was un-
bounded,

“Turn him out immediately,” replied the
Dean.

The wretched porter, arming himself with a
broom, approached Jack, and, after some coax-
ing, managed to catch hold of the end of h’s
chain, and began to lead him towards the gates,
carefully holding out the broom towards Jack’s
nose with his other hand, to protect himself :
Jack at first hauled away at his chain, and then
began circling round the porter at the full ex-
tent of it, evidently meditating an attack. Not-
withstanding the seriousness of the situation
the ludicrous alarm of the porter set the men
laughing.

“Come along, or Jack- will be pinning the
wretched Copas,” said Jervis; and he and Tom
stepped up to the terrified little man, and, releas-
ing him, led Jack, who knew them both well,
out of college.

“Were you at that supper-party?” said Jer-
vis, as they deposited Jack vrith an hostler, who
was lounging outside the gates, to be taken to
Drysdale’s stables.

“ No,” said Tom.

“I’m glad to hear it; there will be a pretty
clean sweep after last night's doings.”

“ But I was in the quadrangle when they
came out.”

“ Not caught, eh ?” said Jervis.

“ No ; luckily, I got to my own rooms at
once.”

“Were any of the crew caught?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, we shall hear enough of it before
lecture-time.”

Jervis was right. There was a meeting in
the common room directly after breakfast.
Drysdale, anticipating his fate, took his name
off' before they sent for him. Chanter and three
or four others were rusticated for a year, and
Blake was ordered to go down at once. He
was a scholar, and what was to be done in his
case would be settled at the meeting at the end
of term.

For twenty-four hours it was supposed that
St. Cloud had escaped altogether ; but at the
end of that time he was summoned before a

128

^OxAI BROWN AT OXFORD.

meeting in the common room. The tutor,
whose door had been so effectually screwed up
that he had been obliged to get out of his win-
dow by a ladder to attend morning chapel,
proved wholly unable to appreciate the joke, and
set himself to vork to discover the perpetrators
of it. The door was fastened with long gim-
lets, which had been screwed firmly in, and,
when driven well home, their heads knocked off.
The tutor collected the shafts of the gimlets
from the carpenter, who came to effect an entry
for him ; and, aftercareful examination, discov-
ered the trade-mark. So, putting them in his
pocket, he walked off into the town, and soon
came back with the information he required,
which resulted in the rustication of St. Cloud,
an event which was borne by the college with
the greatest equanimity.

Shortly afterwards Tom attended in the
schools’ quadrangle again, to be present at the
posting of the class-list. This time there were
plenty of anxious faces ; the quadrangle was full
of them. He felt almost as nervous himself as
if he were waiting for the third gun. He thrust
himself forward, and was among the first who
caught sight of the document. One look was
enough for him, and the next moment he was
off at full speed to St. Ambrose, and, rushing
headlong into Hardy's rooms, seized him by the
hand and shook it vehemently.

“It’s all right, old fellow!” he cried, as soon
as he could catch his breath; “it’s all right!
Four firsts — you’re one of them. Well done !”
“And Grey, where’s he? is he all right?”

“ Bless me, I forgot to look,” said Tom ; “ I
only read the firsts, and then came off as hard
as I could.”

“ Then he is not a first?”

“No; I’m sure of that.”

“ I must go and see him ; he deserved it far
more than I.”

“No, by Jove! old boy,” said Tom, seizing
him again by the hand, “that he didn’t; nor
any man that ever went into the schools.”

“ Thank }'Ou, Brown,” said Ilai'dy, returning
his warm grip. “You do one good. Now to
see poor Grey, and to write to my dear old fa-
ther before hall. Fancy him opening the letter
at breakfast the day after to-morrow ! I only
hope it won’t hurt him.”

“Never fear. I don’t believe in people dying
of joy, and any thing short of sudden death he
won’t mind, at the price.”

Hardy hurried off ; and Tom went to his own
rooms, and smoked a cigar to allay his excite-
ment, and thought about his friend, and all they
had felt together, and laughed and mourned over,
in the short months of their friendship. A pleas-
ant dreamy half-hour he spent thus, till the hall
bell roused him, and he made his toilet and went
to his dinner.

It was with very mixed feelings that Hardy
walked by the servitors’ table and took his seat
with the bachelors, an equal at last among equals.
No man who is worth his salt can leave a place
where he has gone through hard and searching

discipline, and been tried in the very depths of
his heart, without regi-et, however much he may
have winced under the discipline. It is no light
thing to fold up and lay by forever a portion of
one’s life, even when it can be laid by with hon-
or and in thankfulness.

But it was with no mixed feelings, but with a
sense of entire triumph and joy, that 'I’om watch-
ed his friend taking his new place, and the dons
one after another coming up and congratulating
him, and treating him as the man who had done
honor to them and his college.

CHAPTER XXV.

C O M 31 E SI O R A T I O N .

The end of the academic year was now at
hand, and Oxford was beginning to put on her
gayest clothing. The college gardeners were in
a state of unusual activity, and the lawns and
flower-beds, which form such exquisite settings
to many of the venerable gray, gabled buildings,
were as neat and as bright as hands could make
them. Cooks, butlers, and their assistants were
bestirring themselves in kitchen and buttery, un-
der the direction of bursars jealous of the fame of
their houses, in the preparation of the abundant
and solid fare with which Oxford is wont to en-
tertain all coiners. Every thing the best of its
kind, no stint but no nonsense, seems to be the
wise rule which the university hands down and
lives up to in these matters. However we may
differ as to her degeneracy in other departments,
all who have ever visited her will admit that in
this of hospitality she is still a great national
teacher, acknowledging and preaching by ex-
ample the fact that eating and drinking are im-
portant parts of man’s life, which are to be allow-
ed their due prominence, and not thrust into a
corner, but are to be done soberly and thank-
fully in the sight of God and man. The coaches
were bringing in heavy loads of visitors ; car-
riages of all kinds were coming in from the
neighboring counties ; and lodgings in the High
Street were going up to fabulous prices.

In one of these High Street lodgings, on the
evening of the Saturday before Commemoration,
Miss Winter and her cousin are sitting. They
have been in Oxford the greater part of the day,
having posted up from Englebourn ; but they
have only just come in, for the younger lady is
still in her bonnet, and Miss Winter’s lies on
the table. The windows are wide open, and
Miss Winter is sitting at one of them ; while
her cousin is busied in examining the furniture
and decorations of their temporary home, now
commenting upon these, now pouring out praises
of Oxford.

“Isn’t it too charming? I never dreamt
that any town could be so beautiful. Don't
you feel wild about it, Katie?”

“ It is the queen of towms, dear. But I know
it well, you see, so that I can’t be quite so en-
thusiastic'as you.”

TOM' BROWN AT OXFORD

129

“ Oh, tliose dear gardens ! what was the name
of those ones with the targets up, where they
were shooting? Don’t you remember?”

“ New College Gardens, on the old city wall,
3’ou mean ?”

“No, no. They were very nice and senti-
mental. I should like to go and sit and read
poetry there. But I mean the big ones, the
gorgeous, princely ones, with wicked old Bishop
Laud’s gallery looking into them.”

- “Oh! St. John’s, of course.”

“ Yes, St. John’s. Why do you hate Laud
so, Katie ?”

“I don’t hate him, dear. He was a Berk-
shire man, you know. But I think he did a
great deal of harm to the Church.”

“ How did you think my new silk looked in
the gardens? How lucky I brought it, wasn’t
it? I shouldn’t have liked to have been in
nothing but muslins. They don’t suit here ;
you want something richer among the old build-
ings, and on the beautiful velvety turf of the
gardens. How do you think I looked ?”

“You looked like a queen, dear; or a lady-
in-waiting, at least.”

“Yes, a lady-in-waiting on Henrietta Maria.
Didn’t you hear one of the gentlemen say that
she was lodged in St. John’s when Charles
marched to relieve Gloucester ! Ah ! can’t you
fancy her sweeping about the gardens, with her
ladies following her, and Bishop Laud walking
just a little behind her, and talking in a low
voice about — let me see — something very im-
portant ?”

“Oh, Mary, whei’e has your history gone?
He was Archbishop, and w'as safely locked up
in the Tower.”

“ Well, perhaps he was; then he couldn’t be
with her, of course. How stupid of you to re-
member, Katie. Why can’t you make up your
mind to enjoy yourself when you come out for a
holiday ?”

“ I shouldn’t enjoy myself any the more for
forgetting dates,” said Katie, laughing.

“ Oh, you would though ; only try. But let
me see, it can’t be Laud. Then it shall be that
cruel drinking old man, with the wooden leg
made of gold, who was governor of Oxfoi'd when
the king was away. He must be hobbling along
after the queen in a buff coat and breast-plate,
holding his hat with a long drooping white
feather in his hand.”

“But you wouldn’t like it at all, Mary; it
would be too serious for you. The poor queen
would be too anxious for gossip, and you ladies-
in-waiting would be obliged to walk after her
without saying a word.”

“ Yes, that would be stupid. But then she
would have to go away with the old governor to
write, dispatches; and some of the young offi-
cers with long hair, and beautiful lace sleeves
and large boots, whom the king had left behind,
wounded, might come and walk perhaps, or sit
in the sun in the quiet gardens.”

Mary looked oA'er her shoulder with the mer-
riest twinkle in her eye, to see how her steady
1)

cousin would take this last picture. “The col-
lege authorities would never allow that,” she
said quietly, still looking out of window; “if
you wanted beaux, you must have hud them in
black gowns.”

“ They would have been jealous of the sol-
diers, you think? Well, I don’t mind; the
black gowns arc very pleasant, only a little stiff.
But how do you think my bonnet looked ?”

“ Charmingly. But when are you going to
have done looking in the glass ? You don’t care
for the buildings, I believe, a bit. Come and
look at St. Mary’s ; there is such a lovely light
on the steeple !”

“I’ll come directly, but I must get these flow-
ers right. I’m sure there are too many in this
trimming.”

Mary was trying her new bonnet on over and
over again before the mantel-glass, and pulling
out and changing the places of the blush-rose
buds with which it was trimmed. Just then a
noise of wheels, accompanied by a merry tune
on a cornopean, came in from the street.

“What’s that, Katie ?” she cried, stopping
her work for a moment.

“A coach coming up from Magdalen Bridge.
I think it is a cricketing-party coming home.”
“Oh, let me see!” and she tripped across to
the window, bonnet in hand, and stood beside
her cousin. And then, sure enough, a coach
covered with cricketers returning from a match
drove past the -window. The young ladies
looked out at first with great curiosity ; but,
suddenly finding themselves the mark for a
whole coach-load of male eyes, shrank back a
little before the cricketers had passed on tow’ards
the “Mitre.” As the coach passed out of sight,
Mary gave a pretty toss of her head, and said :
“Well, they don’t want for assurance, at any
rate. I think they needn’t have stared so.”

“It was our fault,” said Katie ; ‘Gve shouldn’t
have been at the window. Besides, you know
you are to be a lady-in-waiting on Henrietta
Maria up here, and of course you must get used
to being stared at.”

“ Oh yes, but that was to be by young gentle-
men wounded in the wars, in lace ruffles, as one
sees them in pictures. That’s a very different
thing from young gentlemen in flannel trowsers
and straw hats, driving up the High Street on
coaehes. I declare, one of them had the impu-
dence to bow as if he knew you !”

“ So he does. That was my cousin.”

“ Your cousin ! Ah, I remember. Then
he must be my cousin too.”

“ No, not at all. He is no relation of yours.”
“Well, I shan’t break my heart. But is he
a good partner?”

“I should say, yes. But I hardly know.
We used to be a great deal together as children,,
but papa has been such an invalid lately.”

“Ah, I wonder how uncle is getting on at the
Vice-Chancellor’s. Look, it is past eight by
St. Mary’s. When were we to go ?’’

“ We were asked for nine.”

“Then we must go and dress. Will it be

J30

,TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

very slow and stiff, Katie ? I wish we were
going to something not quite so grand.”
“You’ll find it very pleasant, I dare say.”
“There won’t be any dancing, though, I
know; will there ?”

“No ; I should think certainly not.”

“ Dear me ! I hope there will be some young
men there — I shall be so shy, I know, if there
are nothing but wise people. How do you talk
to a Regius Professor, Katie ? It must be aw-
ful.”

“ He will probably be at least as uncomforta-
ble as you, dear,” said Miss Winter, laughing,
and rising from the window; “let us go and
dress.”

“ Shall I wear my best gown? W^hat shall
I put in my hair?”

At this moment the door opened, and the
maid-servant introduced Mr. Brown.

It was the St. Ambrose drag which had pass-
ed along shortly before, bearing the eleven
home from a triumphant match. As they
came over Magdalen Bridge, Drysdale, who
had returned to Oxford as a private gentleman
after his late catastrophe, which he had man-
aged to keep a secret fi-om his guardian, and
was occupying his usual place on the box, call-
ed out :

“Now, boys, keep your eyes open, there must
be plenty of lionesses about ;” and thus warned,
the whole load, including the cornopean player,
were on the look-out for lady visitors, profane-
ly called lionesses, all the way up the street.
They had been gratified by the sight of several
walking in the High Street or looking out of
the windows, before they caught sight of Miss
Winter and her cousin. The appearance of
these young ladies created a sensation.

“I say, look! — up there in that first-floor.”
“By George, they’re something like!”

“ The sitter, for choice.”

“No, no, the standing-np one; she looks so
saucy.”

“ Hallo, Brown ! do you know them ?”

“ One of them is my cousin,” said Tom, who
had just been guilty of the salutation which, as
we saw, excited the indignation of the younger
lady.

“What luck! You’ll ask me to meet them
— when shall it be ? To-morrow at breakfast,
I vote.”

“I say, you’ll introduce me before the ball
on Monday? promise now,” said another.

“I don’t know that I shall see any thing of
them,” said Tom ; “I shall just leave a paste-
board, but I’m not in the humor to be dancing
about lionizing.”

A storm of indignation arose at this speech.
The notion that any of the fraternity who had
any hold on lionesses, particularly if they were
pretty, should not use it to the utmost for the
benefit of the rest, and the glory and honor of
the college, was revolting to the under-grad-
uate mind. So the whole body escorted Tom
to the door of the lodgings, impressing upon
him the necessity of engaging both his lionesses

for every hour of every day in St. Ambrose’s,
and left him not till they had heard him ask
for the young ladies, and seen him fairly on his
way up stairs. They need not have taken so
much trouble, for in his secret soul he was no
little pleased at the appearance of creditable la-
dies more or less belonging to him, and would
have found his way to see them quickly and
surely enough without any urging. Moreover,
he had been really fond of his cousin years be-
fore, when they had been boy and girl together.

So they greeted one another very cordially,
and looked one another over as they shook
hands, to see what changes Time had made.
He makes his changes rapidly enough at that
age, and mostly for the better, as the two
cousins thought. It was nearly three years
since they had met, and then he was a fifth-
form boy and she a gird in the school-room.
They were both conscious of a strange pleasure,
in meeting again, mixed with a feeling of shy-
ness and wonder whether they should be able
to step back into their old relations.

Mary looked on demurely, really watching
them, but ostensibly engaged, on the rosebud
trimming. Presently Miss Winter turned to
her and said, “I don’t think you two ever met
before; I must introduce you, I suppose; my
cousin Tom, my cousin Mary.”

“ Then we must be cousins too,” said Tom,
holding out his hand.

“No, Katie says not,” she answered.

“I don’t mean to believe her, then,” said
Tom ; “ but what are you going to do now, to-
night? Why didn’t you write and tell me you
W'ere coming?”

“We have been so shut up lately, owing to,
papa’s bad health, that I really had almost for-
gotten you were at Oxford.”

“ By-the-by,” said Tom, “ where is uncle?”
“Oh, he is dining at the Vice-Chancellor’s,
who is an old college friend of his. We have
only been up hei-e three or four hours, and it
has done him so much good. I am so glad we
spirited him up to coming.”

“You haven’t made any engagements yet, I
hope ?”

“Indeed we have; I can’t tell how many.
We came in time for luncheon in Balliol.
Mary and I made it our dinner, and we ha’^e
been seeing sights ever since, and have been
asked to go to I don’t know how many lunch-
eons and breakfasts.”

“What, with a lot of dons, I suppose ?” said
Tom, spitefully; “you won’t enjoy Oxford,
then ; they’ll bore you to death.”

“ There now, Katie ; that is just what I w^as
afraid of,” joined in Maiy ; you remember we
didn’t hear a word about balls all the after-
noon.”

“ You haven’t got your tickets for the balls,
then ?” said Tom, brightening up.

“ No ; how^ shall we get them ?”

“ Oh, I can manage that, I’ve no doubt.”

“ Stop ; how are we to go ? Papa will never
take us.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

]31

“You needn't think about that; any body will
chaperon you. Nobody cares about that sort
of thing at Commemoration.”

“ Indeed, I think you had better wait till I
have talked to papa.”

“ Then all the tickets will be gone,” said
Tom. “ You must go. Wliy shouldn’t I chap-
eron you ? I know several men whose sisters
are going with them.”

“ No, that will scarcely do, I’m afraid. But
really, Mary, we must go and dress.”

“ Where are you going, then ?” said Tom.

“To an evening party at the Vice-Chancel-
lor’s ; we are asked for nine o’clock, and the
half-hour has struck.”

“ Hang the dons ! how unlucky that I didn’t
know before ! Have you any flowers, by-thc-
way ?”

“ Not one.”

“ Then I will try to get you some by the time
you are ready. May I

“Oh yes, pray do,” said Mary. “That’s
capital, Katie, isn’t it ? Now I shall have some-
thing to put in my hair : I couldn't think what
I was to wear.”

I'om took a look at the hair in question, and
then left them and hastened out to scour the
town for flowers, as if his life depended on suc-
cess. In the morning he would probably have
resented as insulting, or laughed at as wildly
improbable, the suggestion that he would be so
employed before night.

A double chair was drawn up opposite the
door when he came back, and the ladies were
coming down into the sitting-room.

“Oh look, Katie! AVhat lovely flowers!
How very kind of you !”

Tom surrendered as much of his burden as
that young lady’s little round white hands could
clasp to her, and deposited the rest on the table,

“ Now, Katie, which shall I wear — this beau-
tiful white rose all by itself, or a wreath of these
pansies ? Here, I have a wire : I can make
them up in a minute.” She turned to the glass,
and held the rich cream-white rose against her
hair, and then turning on Tom, added, What
do you think ?”

“I thought fern would suit your hair better
than any thing else,” said Tom ; “and so I got
these leaves,” and he picked out two slender
fern-leaves.

“ How very kind of you ! Let me see, how
do you mean ? Ah ! I see ; it will be charm-
ing and so saying, she held the leaves, one in
each hand, to the sides of her head, and then
floated about the room for needle and thread,
and with a few nimble stitches fastened together
the simple green crown which her cousin put on
for her, making the points meet above her fore-
head. Mary was wild with delight at the effect,
and full of thanks to Tom as he helped them
hastily to tie up bouquets, and then, amidst
much laughing, they squeezed into the wheel
chair together (as the fashions of that day allow-
ed two young ladies to do) and went off to their
party, leaving a last injunction on him to go up

' and put the rest of the flowers in water, and to
call directly after breakfast the next day.

He obeyed his orders, and pensively arranged
the rest of the flowers in the china ornaments
on the mantel-piece, and in a soup-plate which
he got and placed in the middle of the table,
and then spent some minutes examining a pair
of gloves and other small articles of women’s
gear which lay scattered about the room. The
gloves particularly attracted him, and he flat-
tened them out and laid them on his own large
brown hand, and smiled at the contrast, and
took other unjustifiable liberties with them ;
after which he returned to college and endured
much banter as to the time his call had lasted,
and promised to engage his cousins, as he called
them, to grace some festivities at St. Ambrose’s
at their first spare moment.

The next day, being Show Sunday, was spent
by the young ladies in a ferment of spiritual (ind
other dissipation. They attended morning serv-
ice at eight at the cathedral; breakfasted at a
Merton fellow’s, from whence they adjourned to
university sermon. Here Mary, after two or
three utterly ineft'ectual attempts to understand
what the preacher was meaning, soon relapsed
into an examination of the bonnets present and
the doctors and proctors on the floor, and the un-
der-graduates in the gallery. On the whole, she
was, perhaps, better employed than her cousin,
who knew enough of religious party strife to fol-
low the preacher, and was made very uncom-
fortable by his discourse, which consisted of
an attack upon the recent publications of the
most eminent and best men in the university.
Boor Miss Winter came away with a vague im-
pression of the wickedness of all persons who
dare to travel out of beaten tracks, and that the
most unsafe state of mind in the world is that
which inquires and aspires, and can not be sat-
isfied with the regulation-draught of spiritual
doctors in high places. Being naturally of a
reverent turn of mind, she tried to think that the
discourse had done her good. At the same time
she Avas somewhat troubled by the thought that
Somehow the best men in all times of which
she had read seemed to her to be just those
whom the preacher was in fact denouncing,
although in words he had praised them as the
great lights of the Church. The words which
she had heard in one of the lessons kept running
in her head, “Truly ye bear witness that ye do
allow the deeds of your fathers, for they indeed
killed them, but ye build their sepulchres.” But
she had little leisure to think on the subject, and,
as her father praised the sermon as a noble pro-
test against the fearful tendencies of the day to
Popery and Pantheism, smothered the question-
ings of her own heart as well as she could, and
Avent off to luncheon in a common room ; after
which her father retired to their lodgings, and
she and her cousin Avere escorted to afternoon
service at Magdalen, in achieving Avhich last feat
they had to encounter a crush only to be equalled
by that at the pit enti'ance to the opera on a Jen-
ny Lind night. But Avhat Avill not a delicately-

132

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

nurtured British lady go through, when her mind
is bent either on pleasure or duty ?

Poor Tom’s feelings throughout the day may
be more easily conceived than described. He
had called according to order, and waited at
their lodgings after breakfast. Of course they
did not arrive. He had caught a distant
glimpse of them in St. Mary’s, but had not been
able to approach. He had called again in the
afternoon unsuccessfully, so far as seeing them
was concerned ; but he had found his uncle at
home, lying upon the sofa. At first he was
much dismayed by this rencontre,,but, recover-
ing his presence of mind, he proceeded, I regret
to say, to take the length of the old gentleman’s
foot, by entering into a minute and sympathiz-
ing inquiry into the state of his health. Tom
had no faith whatever in his uncle’s ill-health,
and believed — as many persons of robust consti-
tution are too apt to do when brought face to face
with nervous patients — that he might shake off
the whole of his maladies at any time by a reso-
lute effort, so that his sympathy was all a sham ;
though, perhaps, one may pardon it, consider-
ing the end in view, which was that of persuad-
ing the old gentleman to intrust the young la-
dies to his nephew’s care for that evening in the
Long Walk ; and generally to look upon his
nephew, Thomas Brown, as his natural prop and
supporter in the university, whose one object in
life just now would be to take trouble off his
hands, and who was of that rare and precocious
steadiness of character that he might be as safe-
ly trusted as a Spanish duenna. To a very con-
siderable extent the victim fell into the toils.
He had many old friends at the colleges, and
was very fond of good dinners, and long sittings
afterwards. This very evening he was going to
dine at St. John’s, and had been much troubled
at the idea of having to leave the unrivalled old
port of that learned house to escort his daugh-
ter and niece to the Long Walk. Still he was
too easy and good-natured not to wish that they
might get there, and did not like the notion of
their going with perfect strangers. Here was
a compromise. His nephew was young, but
still he was a near relation, and in fact it gave
the poor old man a plausible excuse for not ex-
erting himself as he felt he ought to do, which
was all he ever required for shifting his respon-
sibilities and duties upon other shoulders.

So Tom waited quietly till the young ladies
came home, which they did just before hall-
time. Mr. Winter was getting impatient. As
soon as they arrived he started for St. John’s,
after advising them to remain at home for the
rest of the evening, as they looked quite tired
and knocked up ; but if they were resolved to
go to the Long Walk, his nephew would es-
cort them.

“How can Uncle Robert say we look so
tired ?” said Mary, consulting the glass on the
subject ; “I feel quite fresh. Of course, Katie,
you mean to go to the Long Walk?”

“I hope you will go,” said Tom ; “ I think
you owe me some amends. I came here ac-

cording to order this morning, and you were
not in, and I have been trying to catch you
ever since.”

“We couldn’t help it,” said Miss Winter;
“ indeed we have not had a minute to ourselves
all day. I was very sorry to think that we
should have brought you here for nothing this
morning.”

“But about the Long Walk, Katie ?”

“ Well, don’t you think we have done enough
for to-day ? I should like to have tea and sit
quietly at home, as papa suggested.”

“ Do you feel very tired, dear?” said Mary,
seating herself by her cousin on the sofa, and
taking her hand.

“ No, dear; I only want a little quiet and a
cup of tea.”

“ Then let us stay here quietly till it is time
to start. When ought we get to the Long
Walk?”

“ About half-past seven,” said Tom ; “you
shouldn’t be much later than that.”

“ There you see, Katie, we shall have two
hours perfect rest. You shall lie upon the sofa,
and I will read to you, and then we shall go on
all fresh again.”

Miss Winter smiled and said, “Very well.”
She saw that her cousin w'as bent on going, and
she could deny her nothing.

“ May I send you in any thing from college ?”
said Tom ; “ you ought to have something more
than tea. I’m sure.”

“ Oh no, thank you. We dined in the mid-
dle of the day.”

“Then I may call for j'ou about seven
o’clock ?” said Tom, who had come unwillingly
to the conclusion that he had better leave them
for the present.

“ Yes, and mind you come in good time ; we
mean to see the whole sight, remember. We
are country cousins.”

“You must let me call you cousin, then, just
for the look of the thing.”

“ Certainly, just for the look of the thing, we
will be cousins till further notice.”

“ V%11, you and Tom seem to get on togeth-
er, Mary,” said Miss Winter, as they heard the
front door close. “I’m learning a lesson from
you, though I doubt whether I shall ever be able
to put it in practice. What a blessing it must
be not to be shy !”

“Are you shy, then!” said Mary, looking at
her cousin with a playful, loving smile.

“ Yes, dreadfully. It is positive pain to me
to walk into a room where there are people I
do not know.”

“ But I feel that too. I’m sure, now, you
were much less embarrassed than I, last night
at the Vice-Chancellor’s. I quite envied you,
you seemed so much at your ease.”

“Did I? I would have given any thing to
be back here quietly. But it is not the same
thing with you. You have no real shyness, or
you would never have got on so fast with my
cousin.”

“Oh, I don’t feel at all shy with him," said

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

133

Maiy, laughing. “How lucky it is that he'
found us out so soon. I like him so much ! !
There is a sort of way about liim as if he couldn’t !
help liimself. I am sure one could turn him I
round one’s finger. Don’t you think so ?”

“ I’m not so sure of that. But he always
was soft-hearted, poor boy ! But lie isn’t a boy
any longer. You must take care, Mary. Shall
we ring for tea?”

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS.

“ Do well unto thyself and men will speak
good of thee,” is a maxim as old as King Da-
vid’s time, and just as true now as it was then.
Hardy had found it so since the publication of
the class-li.st. Within a few days of that event
it was known that bis was a very good first.
His college tutor had made his own inquiries,
and repeated on several occasions in a confi-
dential way the statement that, “with the ex-
ception of a want of polish in his Latin and
Greek verses, which we seldom get except in
the most finished public-school men — Etonians
in particular — there has been no better exami-
nation in the schools for several years.” The
worthy tutor went on to take glory to the col-
lege, and in a lower degree to himself. He
called attention, in more than one common
room, to the fact that Hardy had never had any
private tuition, but had attained his intellectual
development solely in the curriculum provided
by St. Ambrose’s College for the training of the
youth intrusted to h.er. “ He himself, indeed,”
he would add, “ had always taken much intei*-
est in Hardy, and had, perhaps, done more for
him than would be possible in every case, but
only with direct reference to, and in supple-
ment of the college course.”

The Principal had taken marked and some-
what pompous notice of him, and had gracious-
ly intimated his wish, or, perhaps I should say,
his will (for he would have been much astonish-
ed to be told that a wish of his could count for
less than a royal mandate to any man who had
been one of his servitors), that Hardy should
stand for a fellowship which had lately fallen
vacant. A few weeks before, this excessive af-
fability and condescension of the great man
would have wounded Hardy ; but somehow the
sudden rush of sunshine and prosperity, though
it had not thrown him off his balance, or
changed his estimate of men and things, had
pulled a sort of comfortable sheath over his sen-
sitiveness, and gave him a second skin, as it
were, from which the Principal’s shafts bound-
ed off innocuous, instead of piercing and rank-
ling. At first, the idea of standing for a fel-
lowship at St. Ambrose’s was not pleasant to
him. He felt inclined to open up entirely new
ground for himself, and stand at some other
college, where he had neither acquaintance nor
association. But on second thoughts he re-

' solved to stick to his old college, moved thereto
! partly by the lamentations of Tom, when he
! Iieard of his friend’s meditated emigration, but
I chiefly by the unwillingness to quit a hard post
for an easier one, which besets natures like his
to their own discomfort, but, may one hope, to
the signal benefit of the world at large. Such
men may see clearly enough all the advantages
of a move of this kind — may quite appreciate
the ease which it would bring them — may be
impatient with themselves for not making it at
once — but when it comes to the actual leaving
the old post, even though it may be a march
out with all the honors of war, drums beating
and colors flying, as it would have been in
Hardy’s case, somehow or another, nine times
out of ten, they throw up the chance at the last
moment, if not earlier ; pick up their old arm.s —
growling perhaps at the price they are paying to
keep their own self-respect — and shoulder back
into the press to face their old work, muttering,
“ We are asses ; we don’t know what’s good
for us; but we must see this job through some-
how, come what may.”

So Hardy staid on at St. Ambrose, waiting
for the fellowship examination, and certainly, 1
am free to confess, not a little enjoying the
change in his position and affairs.

He had given up his low dark back rooms to
the new servitor, his successor, to whom he had
presented all the rickety furniture, except his
two Windsor chairs and O.xford reading-table.
The intrinsic value of the gift was not great,
certainly, but was of importance to the poor
I’aw boy who was taking his place ; and it was
made with the delicacy of one Avho knew the
situation. Hardy’s good offices did not stop
here. Having tried the bed himself for up-
wards of three long years, he knew all the hard
places, and he resolved while he staid up that
they should never chafe another occupant as
they had him. So he set himself to provide
stuffing, and took the lad about with him, and
cast a skirt of his newly-acquired mantle of re-
spectability over him, and put him in the way
of making himself as comfortable as circum-
stances would allow ; never disguising from
him all the while that the bed was not to be a
bed of roses. In which pursuit, though not yet
a fellow, perhaps he was qualifying himself bet-
ter for a fellowship than he could have done by
any amount of cramming for polish in his ver-
sification. Not that the electors of St. Ambrose
would be likely to hear of or appreciate this
kind of training. Polished versification would
no doubt have told more in that quarter. But
we who are behind the scenes may disagree
with them, and hold that he who is thus acting
out and learning to understand the meaning of
the word “ fellowship ” is the man for our votes.

So Hardy had left his rooms and gone out
of college, into lodgings near at hand. The
sword, epaulettes, and picture of his father’s old
ship — his tutelary divinities, as Tom called
them — occupied their accustomed place in his
new rooms, except that there was a looking-

134

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

glass over the mantel-piece here, by the side of
which the sword hung, instead of in the centre,
as it had done while he had no such luxury.
His Windsor chairs occupied each side of the
pleasant window of his sitting-room, and al-
ready the taste for luxuries of which he had so
often accused himself to Tom began to peep out
in the shape of one or two fine engravings.
Altogether Fortune was smiling on Hardy, and
he was making the most of her, like a wise man,
having brought her round by proving that he
could get on without her, and Avas not going
out of his way to gain her smiles. Several
men came at once, even before he had taken
his B.A. degree, to read with him, and others
applied to know whether he would take a read-
ing party in the long vacation. In short, all
things went well with Hardy, and the Oxford
world recognized the fact, and tradesmen and
college servants became obsequious, and began
to bow before him, and recognize him as one of
their lords and masters.

It was to Hardy’s lodgings that Tom repair-
ed straightway, when he left his cousin by blood
and cousin by courtesy, at the end of the last
chapter ; for, running over in his mind all his
acquaintance, he at once fixed upon Hardy as
the man to accompany him in escorting the
ladies to the Long Walk. Besides being his
own most intimate friend, Hardy was the man
whom he would prefer to all others to introduce
to ladies uoav. “A month ago it might have
been different,” Tom thought; “he was such
an old guy in his dress. But he has smarten-
ed up, and wears as good a coat as I do, and
looks well enough for any body, though he nev-
er will be much of a dresser. Then he will be
in a bachelor’s gown, too, which will look re-
spectable.”

“ Here yon are ; that’s all right ; I’m so glad
you’re in,” he said as he entered the room.
“Noav I want you to come to the Long Walk
with me to-night.”

“ Very well — will you call for me?”

“Yes, and mind you come in your best get-
up, old fellow : we shall have two of the pret-
tiest girls who are up, with us.”

“You won’t want me, then; they will har-e
plenty of escort.”

“Not a bit of it. They are deserted by their
natural guardian, my old uncle, Avho has gone
out to dinner. Oh, it’s all right ; they are my
cousins, more like sisters, and my uncle knows
Ave are going. In fact it Avas he who settled
that I should take them.”

“Yes, but you see I don’t knoAV them.”
“That doesn’t matter. I can’t take them
both myself— I must have somebody Avith me,
and I’m so glad to get the chance of introduc-
ing you to some of my people. You’ll knoAV
them all, I hope, before long.”

“Of course I should like it very much, if you
are sure it’s all right.”

Tom was as perfectly sure as usual, and so
the matter A\'as arranged. Hardy Avas A'ery
much pleased and gratified at this proof of his

friend’s confidence; and I am not going to say
that he did not shave again, and pay most un-
Avonted attention to his toilet before the hour
fixed for Tom’s return. The fame of BroAvn’s
lionesses had spread through St. Ambrose’s al-
ready, and Hardy had heard of them as well as
other men. There Avas something so unusual
to him in being selected on such an occasion,
when the smartest men in the college were
Avishing and plotting for that Avhich came to
him unasked, that he may be pardoned for feel-
ing something a little like vanity while he ad-
justed the coat Avhich Tom had recently thought
of Avith such complacency, and looked in the
glass to see that his goAvn hung gracefully.
The effect, on the Avhole, was so good that Tom
Avas above measure astonished Avhen he came
back, and could not help indulging in some
gentle chaff as they Avalked towards the High
Street arm in arm.

The young ladies were quite rested, and sit-
ting dressed and ready for their Avalk, Avhen
Tom and Hardy Avere announced, and entered
the room. Miss Winter rose up, surprised and
a little embarrassed at the introduction of a to-
tal stranger in her father’s absence. But she
put a good face on the matter, as became a
Avell-bred young Avoman — though she secretly
resolved to lecture Tom in priA'ate — as he in-
troduced “My great friend Mr. Hardy, of our
college. My cousins.” Mary dropped a pret-
ty little demure courtesy, lifting her eyes for
one moment for a glance at Tom, Avhich said as
plain as look could speak, “Well, I must say
you are making the most of your neAv-found
relationship.” He AA’as a little put out for a
moment, but then recovered himself, and said
apologetically,

“Mr. Hardy is a bachelor, Katie — I mean a
Bachelor of Arts, and he knoAvs all the people
by sight up here. We couldn’t hav'e gone to
the Walk Avithout some one to shoAv us the
lions.”

“Indeed, I’m afraid you gh'e me too much
credit,” said Hardjn “I knoAv most of our
dons by sight certainly, but scarcely any of the
visitors.”

The aAvlvAvardness of Tom’s attempted ex-
planation set every thing Avrong again.

Then came one of those aAvkAvard pauses-
Avhich Avill occur so very provokingly at the
most inopportune times. Miss Winter Avas
seized Avith one of the uncontrollable fits of
shyness, her bondage to Avhich she had so late-
ly been grieving over to Mary ; and in self-de-
fense, and Avithout meaning in the least to do
so, drew herself up, and looked as proud as you
please.

Hardy, Avhose sensitiveness Avas almost as
keen as a AV'oman’s, felt in a moment the aAvk-
AA'ardness of the situation, and became as shy as
Miss WTnter herself. If the floor Avould haA’e
suddenly opened and let him through into the
dark shop, he' Avould haA'e been thankful ; but
as it Avould not, there he stood, meditating a
sudden retreat from the room, and a tremen-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

dous onslaught on Tom, as soon as he could
catch him alone, foi' getting him into such a
scrape. Tom was provoked with them all for
not at once feeling at ease with one another,
and stood twirling his cap by the tassel, and
looking fiercely at it, resolved not to break the
silence. He had been at all the trouble of
bringing about this charming situation, and now
nobody seemed to like it, or to know what to
say or do. They might get themselves out of
it as they could, for any thing he cared ; he
was not going to bother himself any more.

Mary looked in the glass to see that her bon-
net was quite right, and then from one to an-
other of her companions, in a little wonder at
their unaccountable behavior, and a little pique
that two young men should be standing there
like unpleasant images, and not availing them-
selves of the privilege of tr^’ing, at least, to
make themselves agreeable to her. Luckily,
however, for the party, the humorous side of
the tableau struck her with great force, so that
when Tom lifted his misanthropic eyes for a
moment and caught hers, they were so full of
fun that he had nothing to do but to allow him-
self, not without a struggle, to break first into a
smile, and then into a laugh. This brought all
eyes to bear, on him, and the ice, being once
broken, dissolved as quickly as it had gathered.

“I really can’t see what there is to laugh at,
Tom,” said Miss Winter,, smiling herself, nev-
ertheless, and blushing a little, as she worked
or pretended to work at buttoning one of her
gloves.

“ Can’t you, Katie ? Well, then, isn’t it very
ridiculous, and enough to make one laugh, that
we four should be standing here in a sort of
Quakers’ meeting, when we ought to be half-
way to the Long Walk by this time?”

“ Oh, do let us start,” said Mary ; “I know
we shall be missing all the best of the sight.”

“ Come along, then,” said Tom, leading the
way down stairs, and Hardy and the ladies fol-
lowed, and they descended into the High Street,
walking all abreast, the two ladies together,
with a gentleman on either flank. This forma-
tion answered well enough in High Street, the
broad pavement of that celebrated thoroughfare
being favorable to an advance in line. But
when they had wheeled into Oriel Lane the
narrow pavement at once threw the line into
confusion; and after one or two fruitless at-
tempts to take up the dressing, they ^settled
down into the more natural formation of close
column of couples, the leading couple consisting
of Mary and Tom, and the i-emaining couple of
Miss Winter and Hardy. It was a lovely mid-
summer evening, and Oxford was looking her
best under the genial cloudless sky; so that,
what with the usual congratulations on the
weather, and explanatory remarks on the build-
ings as they passed along. Hardy managed to
keep up a conversation with his companion with-
out much difficulty. Miss Winter was pleased
with his quiet deferential manner, and soon lost
her feeling of shyness ; and before Hardy had

come to the end of such remarks as it occurred
to him to make, she was taking her fair share
in the talk. In describing their day’s doings,
she spoke with enthusiasm of the beauty of Mag-
dalen Chapel, and betrayed a little knowledge
of traceries and mouldings, which gave an opoii-
ing to her companion to travel out of the weather
and the names of colleges. Church architecture
was just one of the subjects which was sure at
that time to take more or less hold on every
man at Oxford whose mind was open to the in-
fluences of the place. Hardy had read the
usual text-books, and kept his eyes open as he
walked about the town and neighborhood. To
Miss Winter he seemed so learned on the sub-
ject that she began to doubt his tendencies,
and was glad to be reassured by some remarks
which fell from him as to the University ser-
mon which she had heard. She was glad to
find that her cousin’s most intimate friend was
not likely to lead him into the errors of Tracta-
rianism.

Meantime the leading couple were getting on
satisfactorily in their own way.

“ Isn’t it good of Uncle Robert ? he says that
he shall feel quite comfortable as long as you
and Katie are with me. In fact, I feel quite
responsible already, like an old dragon in a
story-book watching a treasure.”

“Yes, but what does Katie say to being made
a treasure of? She has to think a good deal for
herself ; and I am afraid you are not quite cer-
tain of being our sole knight and guardian be-
cause Uncle Robert wants to get rid of us. Poor
old uncle !”

“ But you wouldn’t object, then?”

“ Oh dear no — at least, not unless you take
to looking as cross as you did just now in our
lodgings. Of course, I’m all for dragons who
are mad about dancing, and never think of leav-
ing a ball-room till the band packs up and the
old man shuffles in to put out the lights.”

“ Then I shall be a model dragon,” said Tom.
Twenty-four hours earlier he had declared that
nothing should induce him to go to the balls;
but his views on the subject had been greatly
modified, and he had been worrying all his ac-
quaintance, not unsuccessfully, for the necessary
tickets, ever since his talk with his cousins on
the preceding evening.

The scene became more and more gay and
lively as they passed out of Christchurch to-
wards the Long Walk. The town turned out
to take its share in the show; and citizens of
all ranks, the poorer ones accompanied by chil-
dren of all ages, trooped along cheek by jowl
with members of the University of all degrees,
and their visitors, somewhat indeed to the disgust
of certain of these latter, many of whom declared
that the whole thing was spoiled by the miscel-
laneousness of the crowd, and that “those sort
of people ” ought not to be allowed to come to
the Long Walk on Show-Sunday. However,
“ those sort of people ” abounded nevertheless,
and seemed to enjoy very much, in sober fash-
ion, the solemn march up and down beneath

136

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

the grand avenue of elms in the midst of their
betters.

The University was there in strength, from
the Vice-chancellor downward. Somehow or
another, though it might seem an unreasonable
thing at first sight for grave and reverend per-
sons to do, yet most of the gravest of them found
some reason for taking a turn in the Long Walk.
As for the under-graduates, they turned out al-
most to a man, and none of them more certainly
than the young gentlemen, elaborately dressed,
who had sneered at the whole ceremony as snob-
bish an hour or two before.

As for our hero, he sailed into the meadows
thoroughly satisfied for the moment with him-
self and his convoy. He had every reason to
be so, for though there were many gayer and
more fashionably dressed ladies present than his
cousin and cousin by courtesy, there were none
there whose faces, figures, and dresses carried
more unmistakably the marks of tliat thorough
quiet high-breeding, that refinement which is
no mere surface-polish, and that fearless uncon-
sciousness which looks out from pure hearts,
which are still, thank God, to be found in so
many homes of the English gentry.

The Long Walk was filling rapidly, and at ev-
ery half-dozen paces Tom was greeted by some
of his friends or acquaintance, and exchanged
a word or two with them. But he allowed tliem
one after another to pass by without effecting
any introduction.

“You seem to have a great many acquaint-
ances,” said his companion, upon whom none
of these salutations were lost.

“Yes, of course; one gets to know a great
many men up here.”

“It must be very pleasant. But does it not
interfere a great deal with your reading?”

“No; because one meets them at lectures,
and in hall and chapel. Besides,” he added in
a sudden fit of honesty, “ it is my first year.
One doesn’t read much in one’s first year. It
is a much harder thing than people think to
take to reading, except just before an examina-
tion.”

“But your great friend, who is walking with
Katie — what did yon say his name is ?”

“ Hardy.”

“ Well, he is a great scholar, didn’t you
say ?”

“ Yes, he has just taken a first class. He is
the best man of his year.”

“How proud you must be of him! I sup-
pose, now, he is a great reader?”

“Yes, he is great at every thing. He is
nearly the best oar in our boat. By-the-way,
you will cqme to the procession of boats to-
morrow night? We are the head boat on the
river.”

“ Oh, I hope so. Is it a pretty sight? Let
us ask Katie about it.”

“It is the finest sight in the world,” said
Tom, wlio had never seen it; “twenty-four
eight-oars, with their flags flying, and all the
crews in uniform. You see the barges over

there, moored along the side of the river? You
will sit on one of them as w’e pass.”

“Yes, I think I do,” said Mary, looking
across the meadow in the direction in which he
pointed ; “you mean those great gilded things.
But I don’t see the river.”

“ Shall we walk round there ? It won’t take
us ten minutes.”

“ But we must not leave the Walk and all
the people. It is so amusing here.”

“ Then you will wear our colors at the pro-
cession to-morrow?”

“Yes, if Katie doesn’t mind. At least, if
they are pretty. What are your colors ?”
“Blue and white. I will get you some rib-
bons to-morrow morning.”

“ Very well, and I will make them up into
rosettes.”

“ Why, do you know them ?” asked Tom, as
she bowed to two gentlemen in masters’ caps
and gowns whom they met in the crowd.

“Yes; at least we met them last night.”

“ But do you know who they are?”

“ Oh yes; they were introduced to us, and I
talked a great deal to them. And Katie scold-
ed me for it when we got home. No, I won’t
say scolded me, but looked very grave over it.”
“ They are two of the leaders of the Tracta-
rians.”

“Yes. That was the fun of it. Katie was
so pleased and interested with them at first;
much more than I was. But when she found
out who they were she fairly ran away, and I
staid and talked on. I don’t think they said
any thing very dangerous. Perhaps one of
them Avrote No. 90. Do you know ?”

“I dare saj'. But I don't know much about
it. However, they must have a bad time of it,
I should think, up here with the old dons.”
“But don’t you think one likes people who
are persecuted ? I declare I would listen to
them for an hour, though I didn’t understand a
word, just to show them that I wasn’t afraid of
them, and sympathized with them. How can
people be so ill-natured? I’m sure they only
write what they believe and think Avill do
good.”

“ That’s just what most of us feel,” said
Tom ; “Ave hate to see them put .doAvn because
they don’t agree Avith the SAvells up here. You’ll
see hoAV they Avill be cheered in the theatre.”
“Then they are not unpopular and perse-
cuted, after all ?”

“ Oh yes, by the dons. And that's Avhy Ave
all like tliem. From felloAV-feeling, you see,
because the dons bully them and us equally.”'

“ But I thought they Avere dons too ?”

“ Well, so they are, but not regular dons, you
know, like the proctors, and deans, and that
sort.”

His companion did not understand this deli-
cate distinction, but was too much interested in
Avatching the croAvd to inquire further.

Presently they met tAvo of the heads of houses
walking Avith seA'eral strangers. Every one Avas
noticing them as they passed, and of course Tom

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

137

was questioned as to who they were. Not beinj^
prepared with an answer, he appealed to Hardy,
who was just behind them talking to Miss Win-
ter. They were some of the celebrities on
whom honorary degrees were to be conferred.
Hardy said ; a famous American author, a for-

“ Oh, I remember. You were talking to him
for a long time after you ran away from me. I
was very curious to know what you were say-
ing, you seemed so interested.”

“Well, you seem to have made the most of
your time last night,” said Tom; “I should

eign ambassador, a well-known Indian soldier,
ana .others. Then came some more M.A.’s,
on^ of whom this time bowed to Miss Winter.
“Who was that, Katie?”

“One of the gentlemen we met last night.
I did not catch his name, but he was very agree-
ablle.”

have thought, Katie, you would hardly have ap-
proved of him either.”

“But who is ha?”

“ Why, the most dangerous man in Oxford.
What do they call him — a Germanizer and a
rationalist, isn’t it. Hardy ?”

“ Yes, I believe so,” said Hardy.

138

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ Oh, think of that ! There, Katie ; you had
much better have staid by me, after all. A
Germanize!', didn’t you say? What a hard
word. It must be much worse than Tractari-

an. Isn’t it, now ?”

‘ ‘ Mary dear, pray take care ; every body will
Hear you,” said Miss Winter.

“ I wish I thought that every body would list-
en to me,” replied Miss Mary. “But I really
will be very quiet, Katie — only I must know
which is the worst, my Tractarians or your Ger-
manizer ?”

“ Oh, the Germanize!’, of course,” said Tom.

“But why?” said Hardy, who could do no
less than break a lance for his companion.
Moreover, he happened to have strong convic-
tions on these subjects.

“ Why ? Because one knows the worst of
where the Tractarians are going. They may
go to Rome, and there’s an end of it. But the
Germanizers are going into the abysses, or no
one knows where.”

“ There, Katie, you hear, I hope,” interrupt-
ed Miss Mary, coming to her companion’s res-
cue before Hardy could bring his artillery to
bear, “ but what a terrible place Oxford must

be. I declare it seems quite full of people whom
it is unsafe to talk Avith.”

“ I wish it were, if they were all like Miss
Winter’s friend,” said Hardy. And then the
crowd thickened, and they dropped behind again.
Tom Avas getting to think more of his compan-
ion and less of himself CA’ery minute, Avhen he
was suddenly confronted in the walk by Benja-
min, the Jew money-lender, smoking a cigar,
and dressed in a gaudy figured satin waistcoat
and waterfall of the same material, and resplen-
dent Avith jewelry. He had business to attend
to in Oxford at this time of the year. Nothing
escaped the eyes of Tom’s companion.

“Who AA'as that ?” she said ; “ Avhat a dread-
ful-looking man ! Surely he bowed as if he
kneAV you ?”

“I dare say. He is impudent enough for
any thing,” said Tom.

“But who is he ?”

“ Oh, a rascally felloAV Avho sells bad cigars
and worse Avine.”

Tom's equanimity Avas much shaken by the
apparition of the JeAV. The remembrance of
the bill scene at the public house in the Corn-
market, and the unsatisfactory prospect in that
matter, with Blake plucked and Drysdale no
longer a member of the university, and utterly
careless as to his liabilities, came across him,
and made him silent and absent.

He ansAvered at hazard to his companion’s re-
marks for the next minute or two, until, after
some particularly inappropriate reply, she turn-
ed her head and looked at him for a moment
Avith Avide-open eyes, Avhich brought him to him-
self, or rather drove him into himself, in no time.

“I really beg your pardon,” he said ; “lAvas
A’cry rude, I fear. It is so strange to me to be
Avalking here Avith ladies. What AA'ere you say-
ing?”

“ Nothing of any consequence — I really for-
get. But is it a very strange thing for you to
walk with ladies here ?”

“ Strange ! I should think it Avas ! I haA'e
never seen a lady that I kncAV up here till you
came.”

“ Indeed ! but there must be plenty of ladies
Imng in Oxford ?”

“ I don’t believe there are. At least, Ave
ncA'cr see them.”

“ Then you ought to be on your best behavior
Avhen Avc do come. I shall expect you noAV to
listen to CA'ery thing I say, and to answer my
silliest questions.”

“ Oh, you ought not to be so hard on us.”
“You mean that you find it hard to ansAver
silly questions ? Hoav Aviso you must all groAv,
living up here together ! ”

“Perhaps. But the wisdom doesn’t come
doAvn to the first-year men ; and so — ”

“Well, Avhy do you stop?”

“Because I'Avas going to say something you
might not like.”

“Then I insist on hearing it. Now, I shall
not let you off. You Avere saying that Avisdom
does not come so Ioav as first-year men ; and so
— Avhat ?”

“ And so — and so, they are not Avise.” •
“Yes, of course ; but that Avas not Avhat you
Avere going to say ; and so — ”

“And so they are generally agreeable, for
Avise people are ahvays dull ; and so — ladies
ought to avoid the dons.”

“ And not avoid first-year men ?”

“ Exactly so.”

“ Because they are foolish, and therefore fit
company for ladies. Now, really — ”

“No, no; because they are foolish, and,
therefore, they ought to be made wise ; and la-
dies are Aviser than dons.”

“And therefore duller, for all Avise people,
you said, were dull.”

“Not all Avise people; only people avIio are
wise b}' cramming — as dons ; but ladies arc
Avise by inspiration.” '

“And first-year men, are they foolish by
inspiration and agreeable by cramming, or
agreeable by inspiration and foolish by cram-
ming ?”

“They are agreeable by inspiration ifl the
society of ladies.”

“Then they can ncA-er be agreeable, for', you
say they never see ladies.” |

“ Not Avith the bodily eye, but Avith the eyfe of
fancy.” 1

“Then their agreeableness must he all fan-
cy.”

“ But it is better to be agreeable in fancy
than dull in reality.” '

“That depends upon Avhose fancy it is. To
be agreeable in your own fancy is compatible
Avith being as dull in reality as — ” I

“ How you play Avith words ! I see you Av<pn’t
leave me a shred either of fancy or agreeaple-
ness to stand on.”

“Then I shall do you good service. I s’liall

TOM BROWN

destroy your illusion ; you can not stand on il-
lusions.”

“But remember what my illusions were —
foncy and agreeableness.”

“But your agreeableness stood on fancy,
and your fancy on nothing. You had better
settle down at once on the solid basis of dull-
ness, like the dons.”

“ Then I am to found myself on foct, and try
to be dull? What a conclusion ! But perhaps
dullness is no more a fact than fancy ; what is
dullness ?”

“ Oh, I do not undertake to define ; you are
the best judge.”

“ How severe you are ! Now, see how gener-
ous I am. Dullness in society is the absence of
ladies.”

“ Alas, poor Oxford ! Who is that in the
velvet sleeves ? Why do you touch your cap ?”
“That is the proctoi'. He is our Cerberus ;
he has to keep all under-graduates in good or-
der.”

“What a task! he ought to have three
heads.”

“ He has only one head, but it is a very long
one. And he has a tail like any bashaw, com-
posed of pro-proctors, marshals, and bull-dogs,
and I don’t know what all. But to go back to
what we were saying — ”

“ No, don’t let us go back — I’m tired of it ;
besides you were just beginning about dullness.
How can you expect me to listen now ?”

“ Oh, but do listen, just for two minutes.
Will you be serious ? I do want to know what
you really think when you hear the case.”
“Well, I will try — for two minutes, mind.”
Upon gaining which permission Tom went off
into an interesting discourse on the unnatural-
ness of men’s lives at Oxford, which it is by no
means necessary to inflict on readers.

As he was waxing eloquent and sentimental,
he chanced to look from his companion’s fiice
for a moment in search of a simile, when his
eyes alighted on that virtuous member of socie-
ty, Dick, the factotum of “ The Choughs,” who
was taking his turn in the Long Walk with his
betters. Dick’s face was twisted into an un-
comfortable grin : his eyes were fixed on Tom
and his companion, and he made a sort of half
motion towards touching his hat, but couldn’t
quite carry it through, and so passed by.

“ Ah ! ain’t he a going of it again !” he mut-
tered to himself ; “just like ’em all.”

Tom didn’t hear the words, but the look had
been quite enough for him, and he broke off
short in his speech and turned his head away,
and, after two or three flounderings which Mary
seemed not to notice, stopped short, and let Miss
Winter and Hardy join them.

“It’s getting dark,” he said, as they came up ;
“ the Walk is thinning; ought we not to be go-
ing? Remember, I am in charge.”

“ Yes, I think it is time.”

At this moment the great Christchurch bell —
Tom by name — began to toll.

“Surely that can’t be Tom?” Miss Winter

AT OXFORD. 139

said, who had heard the one hundred and one
strokes on former occasions.

“ Indeed it is, though.”

“But how very light it is.”

“ It is almost the longest day in the year,
and there hasn’t been a cloud all day.”

They started to walk home all together, and
Tom gradually recovered himself, but left the
laboring oar to Hardy, who did his work very
well, and persuaded the ladies to go on and see
the Ratcliffe by moonlight — the only time to
see it, as he said, because of the shadows — and
just to look in at the old quadrangle of St. Am-
brose.

It was almost ten o’clock when they stopped
at the lodgings in High Street. While they
were waiting for the door to be opened. Hardy
said,

“I really must apologize. Miss Winter, to
you, for my intrusion to-night. I hope your
father will allow me to call on him.”

“ Oh yes ! pray do ; he will be so glad to see
any friend of my cousin’s.”

“ And if I can be of any use to him, or to
you, or your sister —

“ My sister ! Oh, you mean Mary ? She is
not my sister.”

“I beg your pardon. But I hope you will
let me know if there is any thing I can do for
you.”

“Indeed we will. Now, Mary, papa will be
worrying about us.” And so the young ladies
said their adieus and disappeared.

“ Surely you told me they were sisters,” said
Hardy, as the two walked away towards college.
“No, did I ? I don’t remember.”

“ But they are your cousins ?”

“Yes; at least Katie is. Don’t you like her ?”
“Of course ; one can’t help liking her. But
she says you have not met for two years or
more.”

“ No more we have.”

“ Then I suppose you have seen more of her
companion lately ?”

“Well, if you must know, I never saw her
before yesterday.”

“You don’t mean to say that you took mo
in there to-night when you had never seen one
of the young ladies before, and the other not for
two years ! Well, upon my word. Brown — ”

“ Now don’t blow me up, old fellow, to-night
— please don’t. There, I give in. Don’t hit a
fellow when he’s down. I’m so low.” Tom
spoke in such a deprecating tone that Harcjy’s
wrath passed away.

“ Why what’s the matter?” he said. “ You
seemed to be full of talk. I was envying your
fluency, I know, often.”

“Talk! yes, so I was. But didn’t you see
Dick in the Walk? You have never heard
any thing more ?”

“No ; but no news is good news.”

“ Heigho ! I’m awfully down. I want to
talk to you. Let me come up.”

“ Come along, then.” And so they disap-
peared into Hardy’s lodgings.

140

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

The two young ladies, meanwhile,, soothed old ]
Mr. Winter, who had eaten and drunk more
than was good for him, and was naturally put j
out thereby. They soon managed to persuade
him to retire, and then follow’ed themselves —
first to Mary’s room, where that young lady
burst out at once, “What a eharming place it
is ! Oh ! didn’t you enjoy your evening, Ka-
tie?”

“Yes; but I felt a little awkward without a
chaperone. You seemed to get on very well
with my cousin. You scarcely spoke to us in
the Long Walk till just before we came away.
What were you talking about ?”

Mary burst into a gay laugh. “All sorts
of nonsense,” she said. “I don’t think I ever
talked so much nonsense in my life. I hope
he isn’t shocked — I don’t think he is ; but I
said any thing that came into my head. I
couldn’t help it. You don’t think it wrong?”
“Wrong, dear? No; I’m sure you coulc^
say nothing wrong.”

“ I’m not so sure of that. But, Katie dear, I
know there is something on his mind.”

“Why do you think so?”

“ Oh, because he stopped short twice, and be-
came quite absent, and seemed not to hear any
thing I said.”

“ How odd ! I never knew him do so. Did
you see any reason for it ?”

“No, unless it was two men we passed in the
crowd. One w'as a vulgar-looking wretch, who
was smoking — a fat black thing, with such a
thick nose, covered wiih jewelry — ”

‘ ‘ Not his nose, dear ?”

“ No, but his dress ; and the other was a
homely, dried up little man, like one of your
Englebourn troubles. I’m sure there is some
mystery about them, and I shall find it out.
But how did you like his friend, Katie ?”

“Very much indeed. I was rather uncom-
fortable at walking so long with a stranger.
But he tvas very pleasant, and is so fond -of Tom.
I am sure he is a very good friend for him.”

“ He looks a good man ; but how ugly !”

“Do you think so? We shall have a hard
day to-morrow. Good-night, dear.”

“ Good-night, Katie. But I don’t feel a bit
sleepy.” And so the cousins kissed one anoth-
er, and Miss Winter went to her own room.

CHARTER XXVII.

LECTUniNG A LIONESS.

The evening of Show Sunday may serve as
a fair sam])le of what this eventful Commem-
oration was to our hero. The constant inter-
course with ladies — with such ladies as Miss
Winter and Mary — young, good-looking, well-
spoken, and creditable in all ways, was very
delightful, and the moi'e fiiscinating, from the
sudden change which their presence wrought
in the ordinary mode of life of the place.
’They would have been charming in any room,

but were quite irresistible in his den, which
no female presence, except that of his blowsy
old bed-maker, had lightened since he had
been in possession. All the associations of
the freshman’s rooms were raised at once.
When he came in at night now, he could look
sentimentally at his arm-chair (christened
“The Captain,” after Captain Hardy), on which
Katie had sat to make breakfast ; or at the
brass peg on the door, on which Mary had
hung her bonnet and shawl, after displacing
his gown. His very teacups and saucers,
which were already a miscellaneous set of sev-
eral different patterns, had made a move al-
most into his affections; at least, the two — one
brown, one blue — which the young ladies had
used. A human interest belonged to them
now, and they were no longer mere crockery.
He thought of buying tw'o very pretty china
ones, the most expensive he could find in Ox-
ford, and getting them to use these for the first
time, but rejected the idea. The fine new
ones, he felt, would never be the same to him.
They had come in and used his own rubbish ;
that was the great charm. If he had been go-
ing to give them cups, no material would have
been beautiful enough ; but for his own use af-
ter them, the commoner the better. The ma-
terial was nothing, the association every thing.
It is marvellous the amount of healthy senti-
ment of which a naturally soft-hearted under-
graduate is capable by the end of the summer
term. But sentiment is not all one-sided.
The delights which spring from sudden intima-
cy with the fairest and best part of the crea-
tion are as far above those of the ordinary, un-
mitigated, under-graduate life, as the British
citizen of 18G0 is above the rudimentary per-
sonage in pre-historic times from whom he has
been gradually improved up to his present state
of enlightenment and perfection. But each
state has also its own troubles as well as its
pleasures ; and, though the former are a price
which no decent fellow would boggle at for a
moment, it is useless to pretend that paying
them is pleasant.

Now at Commemoration, as elsewhere, where
men do congregate, if your lady-visitors are not
pretty or agreeable enough to make your friends
and acquaintance eager to know them, and to
cater for their enjoyment, and try in all ways
to win their favor and cut you out, you have
the satisfaction, at any rate, of keeping them to
yourself, though you lose the pleasures which
arise from being sought after, and made much
of for their sakes, and feeling raised above the
ruck of your neighbors. On the other hand,
if they are all this, you might as well try to
keep the sunshine and air to yourself. Uni-
versal human nature rises up against )’ou ; and
besides, they w'ill not stand it themselves.
And, indeed, why should they? Women, to
be very attractive to all sorts of different peo-
ple, must have great readiness of sympathy.
Many have it naturally, and many w’ork hard
in acquiring a good imitation of it. In the

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

first case, it is against the nature of such per-
sons to be monopolized for more than a very
short time; in the second, all their trouble
would be thrown away if they allowed them-
selves to be monopolized. Once in their lives,
indeed, they will be, and ought to be, and that
monopoly lasts, or should last, forever ; but in-
stead of destroying in them that which was
their great charm, it only deepens and widens
it; and the sympathy which was before fitful,
and, perhaps, wayward, flows on in a calm and
healthy stream, blessing and cheering all who
come within reach of its exhilarating and life-
giving waters.

But man of all ages is a selfish animal, and
unreasonable in his selfishness. It takes every
one ■of us in turn many a shrewd fall, in our
wrestlings with tlie world, to convince us that
we are not to have every thing our own way.
We are conscious in our inmost souls that man
is the rightful lord of creation ; and, starting
from this eternal principle, and ignoring, each
man-child of us in turn, the qualifying truth
that it is to man in general, including women,
and not to Thomas Brown in particular, that
the earth has been given, we set about asserting
our kingships each in his own way, and pro-
claiming ourselves kings from our own little
ant-hills of thrones. And then come the
stragglings and the down-fallings, and some of
us learn our lesson, and some learn it not.
But what lesson? That we have been dream-
ing in the golden hours when the vision of a
kingdom rose before us? That there is, in
short, no kingdom at all, or that, if there be, we
are no heirs of it?

No — I take it that, while we make nothing
better than that out of our lesson, we shall
have to go on spelling at it and stumbling over
it, through all the days of our life, till we make
ogr last stumble, and take our final header out
of this riddle of a world, which we once dream-
ed we were to rule over, exclaiming “ vanitas
vanitatura” to the end. But man’s spirit will
never be satisfied without a kingdom, and was
never intended to be satisfied so ; and a wiser
than Solomon tells us, day by day, that our
kingdom is about us here, and that we may
rise up and pass in when we will at the shining
gates which He holds open, for that it is His,
and we are joint heirs of it with Him.

On the whole, however, making allowances
for all drawbacks, those Commemoration davs
were the pleasantest days Tom had ever known
at Oxford. He was with his uncle and cousins
early and late, devising all sorts of pleasant en-
tertainments and excursions for them, introduc-
ing all the pleasantest men of his acquaintance,
and taxing all the resources of the college, which
at such times were available for under-gradu-
ates as well as their betters, to minister to their
comfort and enjoyment. And he was well re-
paid. There was something perfectly new to
the ladies, and very piquant, in the life and hab-
its of the place. They found it very diverting
to be receiving in Tom’s rooms, presiding over

his breakfasts and luncheons, altering the j)Osi-
tion of his furniture, and making the place look
as pretty as circumstances would allow. Then
there was pleasant occu])ation for every s|)are
hour, and the fdtes and amusements were all
unlike every thing but themselves. Of course
the ladies .at once became enthusiastic St. Ain-
brosians, and managed, in spite of all distrac-
tions, to find time for making up rosettes and
bows of blue and white, in whicli to appear at
the procession of the boats, which was tlie great
event of the Monday. Fortunately, Mr. Win-
ter had been a good oar in his day, and had
pulled in one of the first four-oars in which the
university races had commenced some thirty-
live years before ; and Tom, who had set his
mind on managing his uncle, worked him up
almost into enthusiasm and forgetfulness of his
maladies, so that he raised no objection to a
five o’clock dinner, and an adjournment to the
river almost immediately afterwards. Jervis,
wdio was all-powerful on the river, at Tom’s in-
stigation got an arm-cliair for him in the best
part of the university barge, while the ladies, af-
ter walking along the bank with Tom and
others of the crew, and being instructed in the
colors of the different boats, and the meaning
of the ceremony, took their places in the front
row on tlie top of the barge beneath the awn-
ing and the flags, and looked down with hun-
dreds of other fair strangers on the scene, which
certainly merited all that Tom had said of it on
faith.

The barges above and below the university
barge, which occupied the post of honor, were
also covered with ladies, and Christchurch Mead-
ow swarmed with gay dresses and caps and
gowns. On the opposite side the bank was
lined with a crowd in holiday clothes, and the
punts plied across without intermission loaded
with people, till the groups stretched aw'aydown
the towing-path in an almost continuous line to
the starting-place. Then, one after another,
the racing-boats, all painted and polished up
for the occasion, with the college flags drooping
at their sterns, put out and passed down to their
stations, and the bands played, and the sun shone
his best. And then, after a short pause of ex-
pectation, the distant bank became all alive, and
the groups all turned one way, and came up the
towing-path again, and the foremost boat with
the blue and white flag shot through the Gut
and came up the reach, follow'cd by another,
and another, and another, till they w-ere tired
of counting, and the leading boat was .already
close to them before the last had come within
sight. And the bands played up all together,
and the crowd on both sides cheered as the St.
Ambrose boat spurted from the Ciierwell, and
took the place of honor at the winning-post, op-
posite the university barge, and close under
where they were sitting.

“Oh, look, Katie dear; here they are.
There’s Tom, and Mr. Hardy, and Mr. Jervis ;”
and Mary waved her handkerchief and clapped
her hands, and was in an ecstasy of enthusiasm,

142

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

in -wMcli her cousin was no whit behind her.
The gallant crew of St. Ambrose were by no
means unconscious of, and fully appreciated,
the compliment.

Then the boats passed up one by one ; and,
as each came opposite to the St. Ambrose boat,
the crews tossed their oars and cheered, and the
St. Ambrose crew tossed their oars and cheered
in return ; and the whole ceremony went off in
triumph, notwithstanding the casuality w'hich
occurred to one of the torpids. The torpids be-
ing filled with the refuse of the rowing-men —
generally awkward or very young oarsmen —
find some difficulty in the act of tossing ; no
very safe operation for an unsteady crew. Ac-
cordingly, the torpid in question, having sustain-
ed her crew gallantly till the saluting point, and
allowed them to get their oars fairly into the
air, proceeded gravely to turn over on her side
and shoot them out into the stream.

A thrill ran along the top of the barges, and
a little scream or two might have been heard
even through the notes of Annie Laurie, which
were filling the air at the moment ; but the band
played on, and the crew swam ashore, and two
of the punt-men laid hold of the boat and col-
lected the oars, and nobody seemed to think any
thing of it.

Katie drew a long breath.

“Are they all out, dear?” she said; “can
you see ? I can only count eight.”

“ Oh, I was too frightened to look. Let me
see ; yes, there are nine ; there’s one by him-
self— the little man pulling the weeds off his
trowsei's.”

And so they regained their equanimity, and
soon after left the barge, and were escorted to
the hall of St. Ambrose by the crew, who gave
an entertainment there to celebrate the occasion,
which Mr. Winter was induced to attend and
pleased to approve, and which lasted till it was
time to dress for the ball, for which a proper
chaperone had been providentially found. And
so they passed the days and nights of commem-
oration.

But it is not within the scope of this work to
chronicle all their doings — how, notwithstand-
ing balls at night, they were up to chapel in the
morning, and attended flower-shows at Worces-
ter and musical promenades in New College,
and managed to get down the river for a picnic
at Nnneham, besides seeing every thing that
was worth seeing in all the colleges. How it
was done, no man can tell ; but done it was,
and they seemed only the better for it all.
They were waiting at the gates of the theatre
among the first, tickets in hand, and witnessed
the whole scene, wondering no little at the
strange mixture of solemnity and license, the
rush and crowding of the under-graduates into
their gallery, and their free-and-easy tvay of
taking the whole proceedings under tlieir pa-
tronage, watching every movement in the am-
phitheatre and on the floor, and shouting ap-
proval and disapproval of the heads of their re-
public of learning, or of the most illustrious vis-

itors, or cheering with equal vigor the ladies.
Her Majesty’s ministers, or the prize poems.

It is a strange scene, certainly, and has prob-
ably puzzled many persons besides young ladies.
One can well fancy the astonishment of the
learned foreigner, for instance, when he sees the
head of the University, which he has reverenced
at a distance from his youth up, rise in his robes
in solemn convocation to exercise one of the
highest of University functions, and hears his
sonorous Latin periods interrupted by “three
cheers for the ladies in pink bonnets!” or when
some man is introduced for an honorary degree
whose name may be known throughout the civ-
ilized world, and the Vice-chancellor, turning
to his compeers, inquires, “ Placetne vobis,
domini doctores? placetne vobis, magistri?”
and he hears the voices of doctors and masters
drowned in contradictory shouts from the young
demus in the gallery, “Who is he?” “Non
placet !” “Placet !” “ Why does he carry an
umbrella?” It is thoroughly English, and that
is just all that need, or indeed can, be said for
it all ; but not one in a hundred of us wmuld al-
ter it if we could, beyond suppressing some of
the personalities, which of late years have gone
somewhat too far.

After the theatre there w'as a sumptuous
lunch in All Souls’, and then a fete in St.
John’s Gardens. Now, at the aforesaid lunch-
eon, Tom’s feelings had been severely tried ; in
fact, the little troubles, which as has been before
hinted, are incident to persons, especially young
men in his fortunate predicament, had here
come to a head.

He W'as separated from his cousins a little
way. Being a guest, and not an important one
in the eyes of the All Souls’ fellows, he had to
find his level, which was very much below that
allotted to his uncle and cousins. In short, he
felt that they were taking him about, instead of
he them — which change of position was in it-
self trying ; and Mary’s conduet fanned his
slumbering discontent into a flame. There she
was, sitting between a fellow' of All Souls’, wdio
was a collector of pictures and an authority in
fine-art matters, and the Indian officer who had
been so recently promoted to the degree of
D.C.L. in the theatre. There she sat, so ab-
sorbed in their conversation that she did not
even hear a remark which he W'as pleased to
address to her.

Whereupon he began to brood on his wrongs,
and to take umbrage at the catholieity of her
enjoyment and enthusiasm. So long as he had
been the medium through which she was brought
in contact with others, he had been well enough
content that they should amuse and interest
her ; but it was a very different thing now.

So he watched her jealously, and raked up
former conversations, and came to the conclu-
sion that it was his duty to remonstrate wdth her.
He had remarked, too, that she never could talk
with him now without breaking aw'ay after a short
time into badinage. Her badinage certainly
was very charming and pleasant, and kept him

TOM BROWN AT OXTORD.

143

on the stretch ; but why should she not let him
be serious and sentimental when he pleased?
She did not break out in this manner Avith oth-
er people. So he really felt it to be his duty to
speak to her on the subject — not in the least for
his own sake, but for hers.

Accordingly, Avhen the party broke up, and
they started for the fete at St. John’s, he re-
solved to carry out his intentions. At first he
could not get an opportunity while they were
walking about on the beautiful lawn of the great
garden, seeing and being seen, and listening to
music, and looking at choice flowers. But soon
a chance offered. She staid behind the rest
without noticing it, to examine some specially
beautiful plant and he was by her side in a mo-
ment, and proposed to show her the smaller gar-
den, which lies beyond, to which she innocently
consented ; and they were soon out of the crowd,
and in comparative solitude.

She remarked that he Avas someAvhat silent
and grave, but thought nothing of it, and chat-
ted on as usual, remarking upon the pleasant
company she had been in at luncheon.

This opened the way for Tom’s lecture.

“ Hoav easily you seem to get interested Avith
new people !” he began.

. “ Do I ?” she said. “ Well, don’t you think
it very natural ?”

“Wouldn’t it be a blessing if people would
ahvays say just what they think and mean,
though ?”

“Yes, and a great many do,” she replied,
looking at him in some wonder, and not quite
pleased with the turn things Avere taking.

“ Any ladies, do you think ? You know we
haven’t many opportunities of observing.”

“ Yes, I think quite as many ladies as men.
More, indeed, as far as my small experience
goes.”

“ You really maintain deliberately that you
have met people — men and Avomen — who can
talk to you or any one else for a quarter of an
hour quite honestly, and say nothing at all
Avhich they don’t mean — nothing for the sake
of flattery or effect, for instance ?”

“ Oh dear me, yes, often.”

“ Who, for example ?”

“Our cousin Katie. Why are you so sus-
picious and misanthropical ? There is your
friend Mr. Hardy, again ; Avhat do you say to
him ?”

“ Well, I think you may haA'e hit on an ex-
ception. But I maintain the rule.”

“ You look as if I ought to object. But I
shan’t. It is no business of mine if you choose
to believe any such disagreeable thing about
your felloAv-creatures.”

“ I don’t believe anything worse about them
than I do about myself. I know that I can’t
do it.”

“Well, I am very sorry for you.”

“But I don’t think I am any Avorse than my
neighbors.”

“ I don’t suppose you do. Who are your
neighbors ?”

“ Shall I include you in the number ?”

“ Oh, by all means, if you like.”

“But I may not mean that you are like the
rest. The man Avho fell among thicA'cs, you
knoAv, had one good neighbor.”

“ Noaa', Cousin Tom,” she said, looking up
Avith sparkling eyes, “I can’t return the com-
pliment. You meant to make me feel that I
was like the rest — at least, like Avhat you say
they are. You knoAv you did. And noAV you
are just turning round, and trying to slip out of
it by saying Avhatyow don’t mean.”

“ Well, Cousin Mary, perhaps I Avas. At
any rate, I Avas a great fool for my pains. I
might haA^e knoAvn by this time that you Avould
catch me out fast enough.”

“ Perhaps you might. I didn’t challenge you
to set up your Palace of Truth. But, if avc are
to live in it, you are not to say all the disagree-
able things and hear none of them.”

“I hope not, if they must be disagreeable.
But Avhy should they be ? I can’t see Avhy you
and I, for instance, should not say exactly Avhat
we are thinking to one another Avithout being
disagreeable.”

“Well, I don’t think you made a happy be-
ginning just noAV.”

“But I am sure AA’e should all like one an-
other the better for speaking the truth.”

“ Yes ; but I don’t admit that I haven’t been
speaking the truth.”

“You Avon’t understand me. Ha\'e I said
that you don’t speak the truth ?”

‘ ‘ Yes ; you said just now that I don’t say Avhat
I think and mean. Well, perhaps you didn’t
exactly say that, but that is Avhat you meant.”
“ You are A’^ery angry. Cousin Mary. Let us
wait till — ”

“ No, no. It was you Avho began, and I Avill
not let you off noAv.”

“Very Avell, then. I did mean something
of the sort. It is better to tell you than to keep
it to myself.”

“Yes, and noAv tell me your reasons,” said
Marj", looking down and biting her lip. Tom
Avas ready to bite his tongue off, but there Avas
nothing noAv but to go through Avith it.

“ You make every body that comes near you
think that you are deeply interested in them and
their doings. Poor Grey believ^es that you are
as mad as he is about rituals and rubries. And
the boating men declai*e that you Avould sooner
see a race than go to the best ball in the Avorld.
And you listened to the Dean’s stale old stories
about the schools, and went into raptures in the
Bodleian about pictures and art Avith that fel-
loAv of All Souls’. Even our old butler and the
cook — ”

Here Mary, despite her vexation, after a
severe struggle to control it, burst into a laugh,
which made Tom pause.

“ Noav you can’t say that I am not really fond
of jellies,” she said.

“And you can’t say that I haA^e said any thing
so very disagreeable.”

“ Oh, but you have, though.”

144

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ At any rate I have made you laugh.”

“ But you didn’t mean to do it. Now go
on.”

“I have notliing more to say. You see my
meafiing, or you never will.”

“ If you have nothing more to say, you
should not liave said so much,” said Mary.
“You Avouldn’t have me rude to all the people
I meet, and I can’t help it if the cook thinks I
am a glutton.”

“ But you could help letting Gray think that
you should like to go and see his night-schools.”
“ But I should like to see them, of all things.”
“And I suppose you would like to go through
the manuscripts in the Bodleian with the Dean.
I heard you talking to him as if it was the dear-
est wish of your heart, and making a half-en-
gagement to go with him this afternoon, when
you know that you are tired to death of him,
and so full of other engagements that you don’t
know where to turn*.”

Mary began to bite her lips again. She felt
half inclined to cry, and half inclined to get up
and box his ears. However, she did neither,
but looked up after a moment or two, and said,
“ Well, have you any more unkind words to
say ?”

“ Unkind, Mary ?”

“Yes, they are unkind. How can I enjoy
any thing now when I shall know you are
w'atching me, and thinking all sorts of harm of
every thing I say and do ? However, it doesn’t
much matter, for we go to-morrow morning.”
“But you will give me ci’edit, at least, for
meaning you well.”

“ I think you are very jealous and suspicious.”
“ You don’t know how you pain me when you
say that.”

“But I must say what I think.”

Mary set her little mouth, and looked down,
and began tapping her boot with her parasol.
There was an awkward silence while Tom con-
sidered within himself whether she was not right,
and whether, after all, his own jealousy had not
been the cause of the lecture he had been deliv-
ering, much more than any unselfish wish for
Mary’s improvement.

“It is your turn now,” he said, presently,
leaning forward with his elbows on his knees,
and looking hard at the gravel. “ I may have
been foolishly jealous, and I thank you for tell-
ing me so. But you can tell me a great deal
more if you will, quite as good for me to
hear.”

“ No, I have nothing to say. I dare say you
are open and true, and have nothing to hide or
disguise, not even about either of the men we
met in the Long Walk on Sunday.”

He winced at this random shaft as if he had
been stung, and she saw that it had gone home,
and repented the next moment. The silence
became more and more embarrassing. By good
luck, however, their party suddenly appeared
strolling towards them from the large garden.

“Here are Uncle Robert and Katie, and all
of them. Let us join them.”

She rose up, and he with her, and as they
walked towards the rest, he said quickly, in a low
voice, “Will you forgive me if I have pained
you? I was very selfish, and am very sorry.”
“Oh yes, we were both very foolish, but we
won’t do it again.”

“Here you are at last. We have been lock-
ing for you everywhere,” said Miss Winter as
they came up.

“I’m sure I don’t know how w'e missed you.
We came straight from the music tent to this
seat, and have not moved. We knew you must
come by sooner or later.”

“ But it is quite out of the way. It was quite
by chance that we came round here.”

“Isn’t Uncle Robert tired, Katie?” said
Tom ; “ he doesn’t look well this afternoon.”
Katie instantly turned to her father, and Mr.
Winter declared himself to be much fatigued.
So they wished their hospitable entertainers
good-bye, and Tom hurried off and got a wheel
chair for his uncle, and w;alked by his side to
their lodgings. The young ladies walked near
the chair also, accompanied by one or two of
their acquaintance ; in fact, they could not move
without an escort. But Tom never once turned
liis head for a glance at what was going on, and
talked steadily on to his uncle, that he might
not catch a stray word of what the rest were say-
ing. Despite of all which self-denial, however,
he was quite aware somehow, when he made his
bow at the door, that Mary had been very' silent
all the way home.

Mr. Winter retired to his room to lie down,
and his daughter and niece remained in the sit-
ting-room. Mary sat down and untied her bon-
net, but did not burst into her usual flood of
comments on the events of the day. Miss
Winter looked at her, and said,

“You look tired, dear, and over-excited.”

“ Oh yes, so I am. Fve had such a quarrel
with Tom !”

“ A quarrel — you’re not serious ?”

“Indeed I am, though. I quite hated him
for five minutes at least.”

“But what did he do ?”

“ Why, he taunted me with being too civil to
every body, and it made me so angry. He said
I pretended to take an interest in ever so many
things, just to please people, when I didn’t
really care about them. And it isn’t true now,
Katie, is it ?”

“ No, clear. He never could have said that.
You must have misunderstood him.”

“ There, I knew you would say so. And if
it were true, I’m sure it isn’t wrong. When
people talk to you, it is so easy to seem pleased
and interested in what they are saying — and
then they like you, and it is so pleasant to be
liked. Now, Katie, do you ever snap people’s
noses off, or tell them you think them very fool-
ish, and that you don’t care, and that what they
are saying is all of no consequence ?”

“ I, dear ? I couldn’t do it to save my life.”
“ Oh, I was sure you couldn’t. And he may
say what he will, but I am quite sure he would

TOM BROWN

not have been pleased if we had not made our-
selves pleasant to his friends.”

“That’s quite true. He has told me him-
self half a dozen times how delighted he was to
see you so popular.”

“ And you too, Katie ?”

“ Oh yes. He is very well pleased with me.
But it is you who have turned all the heads in
the college, Mary. You are Queen of St. Am-
brose beyond a doubt just now.”

“ No, no, Katie ; not more than you, at any
rate.”

“ I say yes, yes, Mary. You will always be
ten times as popular as I ; some people have
the gift of it ; I wish I had. But why do you
look so grave again ?"

“Why, Katie, don’t you see you are just say-
ing over again, only in a diiferent way, what
your provoking cousin — I shall call him Mr.
Brown, I think, in future — was telling me for
my good in St. John’s gardens. You saw how
long we were away from you : well he was lec-
turing me all the time — only think ! and now
you are going to tell it me all over again. But
go on, dear ; I shan’t mind any thing from
you.”

She put her arm round her cousin’s waist,
and looked up playfully into her face. Miss
Winter saw at once that no great harm, perhaps
some good, had been done in the passage of
arms between her relatives.

“You made it ail up,” she said, smiling,
“ before we found you.”

“ Only just, though. He begged my pardon
just at last, almost in a whisper, whqn you were
quite close to us.”

“ And you granted it ?”

“Yes, of course: but I don’t know that I
shall not recall it.”

“I was sure you would be falling out before
long, you got on so fast. But he isn’t quite so
easy to turn round your finger as you thought,
Mary,”

“ Oh, I don’t know that,” said Mary, laugh-
ing ; “you saw how humble he looked at last,
and what good order he was in.”

“Well, dear, it’s time to think whether we
shall go out again.”

“ Let me see ; there’s the last ball. What
do you say ?”

“ Why, I’m afraid poor papa is too tired to
take us, and I don’t know with whom we could
go. We ought to begin packing, too, I think.”
“Very well. Let us have tea quietly at
home.”

“I will write a note to Tom to tell him.
He has done his best for us, poor fellow, and
We ought to consider him a little.”

“Oh yes, and ask him and his friend Mr.
Hardy to tea, as it is the last night.”

“ If you wish it, I should be very glad ; ■ they
will amuse papa.” ,

“ Certainly, and then he will see that I bear
him no malice. And now I will go and just
do my hair.”

“Very well; and we will pack after they
10

AT OXFORD. 145

leave. How strange home will seem, after all
this gayety,”

“Yes; we seem to have been here a month.”
“ I do hope we shall find all quiet at Engle-
bourn. I am always afraid of some trouble
there.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE END OF THE FKESHMAN’s TEAR.

On the morning after Commemoration, Ox-
ford was in a bustle of departure. The play
had been played, the long vacation had begun,
and visitors and members seemed equally anx-
ious to be oft*. At the gates, of the colleges
groups of men in travelling dresses waited for
the coaches, omnibuses, dog-carts, and all man-
ner of vehicles, which were to carry them to the
Great Western railway station at Steventon, or
elsewhere, to all points of the compass. Por-
ters passed in and out with portmanteaus, gun-
cases, and baggage of all kinds, which they
piled outside the gates, or carried off* to “The
Mitre” or “The Angel,” under the vigorous
and not too courteous orders of the owners.
College servants flitted round the groups to
take last instructions, and, if so’might be, to ex-
tract the balances of extortionate bills out of
their departing masters. Dog-fanciers were
there also, holding terriers; and scouts from
the cricketing grounds, with bats and pads un-
der their arms ; and hostlers, and men from the
boats, all on the same errand of getting the last
shilling out of their patrons — a fawning, obse-
quious crowd for the most part, with here and
there a sturdy Briton who felt that he was only
there for his due.

Through such a group, at the gate of St.
Ambrose, Tom and Hardy passed soon after
breakfast-time, in cap and gown, which costume
excited no small astonishment.

“ Hallo, Brown, old fellow ! ain’t you off this
morning?”

“No, I shall be up for a day or two yet.”

“ Wish you joy. I wouldn’t be staying up
over to-day for something.”

“But you’ll be at Henley to-morrow?” said
Diogenes, confidently, who stood at the gate in
boating coat and flannels, a big stick and knap-
sack, waiting for a companion, with whom he
was going to walk to Henley.

“And at Lord’s on Friday,” said another.
“ It will be a famous match. Come and dine
somewhere afterwards, and go to the Haymar-
ket with us.”

“You know the Leander are to be at Hen-
ley,” put in Diogenes; “and Cambridge is
very strong. There will be a splendid race for
the cup, but Jeiwis thinks we are all right.”

“ Bother your eternal races ; haven’t we had
enough of them ?” said the Londoner. “You
had much better come up to the little village at
once. Brown, and stay there while the coin lasts.”

“ If I get away at all, it will be to Henley,”
said Tom.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ Of course, I knew that,” said Diogenes, |
triumphantly; “our boat ought to be on for
the ladies’ plate. If only Jervis were not in
the University crew! I thought you were to
pull at Henley, Hardy ?”

“I was asked to pull, but I couldn’t manage
the time with the schools coming on, and when
the examinations were over it was too late.
The crew were picked and half-trained, and
none of them have broken down.”

“What! every one of them stood putting
through the sieve ? They must be a rare crew,
then,” said another.

“You’re right,” said Diogenes. “ Oh, here
you are at last,” he added, as another man in
flannels and knapsack came out of college.
“ Well, good-bye all, and a pleasant vacation ;
we must be off, if we are to be in time to see
our crew pull over the course to-night and
the two marched oflf towards Magdalen Bridge.

“By Jove !” remarked a fast youth, in most
elaborate toilet, looking after them, “ fancy two
fellows grinding off to Henley, five miles an
hour, in this sun, when they might drop up to
the metropolis by train' in half the time? Isn’t
it marvellous?”

“I should like to bo going with them,” said
Tom.

“Well, there's no accounting for tastes.
Here’s our coach.”

“Good-bye, then;” and Tom shook hands,
and, leaving the coach to get packed with port-
manteaus, terriers, and under-graduates, he and
Hardy walked off towards the High Street.

“ So 3'ou’re not going to-day?” Hardy said.

“No ; two or three of my old school-fellows
are coming up to stand for scholarships, and I
must be here to receive them. But it’s very
unlucky ; I should have liked so to have been
at Henley.”

“Look, their carriage is already at the door,”
said Hardy, pointing up High Street, into which
they now turned. There were a dozen post-
chaises and carriages loading in front of differ-
ent houses in the street, and among them Mr.
Winter’s old-fashioned travelling barouche.

“ So it is,” said Tom ; “ that’s some of un-
cle’s fidgetiness ; but he will be sure to dawdle
at the last. Come along in.”

“Don’t you think I had better stay down
stairs ? It may seem intrusive.”

“ No, come along. Why, they asked you to
come and see the last of them last night, didn’t
they ?”

Hardy did not require any further urging to
induce him to follow his inclination ; so the
two went up together. The breakfast things
were still on the table, at which sat Miss Win-
ter, in her bonnet, employed in examining the
bill, with the assistance of Mary, who leaned
over her shoulder. She looked up as they en-
tered.

“Oh! I’m so glad you are come. Poor
Katie is so bothered, and I can’t help her. Do
look at the bill ; is it all right ?”

“Shall I, Katie?”

“Yes, please do. I don’t see any thing to
object to, except, perhaps, the things I have
marked. Do you think we ought to be charged
half a crown a day for the kitchen fire ?”

“ Fire in June ! and you have never dined at
home once?”

“No, but we have had tea several times.”
“It is a regular swindle,” said Tom, taking
the bill and glancing at it. “Here, Hardy,
come and help me cut down this precious total.”
They sat down to the bill, the ladies willing-
ly giving place. Mary tripped off to the glass
to tie her bonnet.

“Now that is all right!” she said, merrily;
“why can’t one go on without bills or horrid
money ?”

“Ah! why can’t one?” said Tom; “that
would suit most of our complaints. But where’s
uncle? has he seen the bill?”

“ No ; papa is in his room ; he must not be
worried, or the journey will be too much for

him.”

Here the ladies’ -maid arrived, with a message
that her father wished to see Miss Winter.

“Leave your money, Katie,” said her cous-
in ; “ this is gentlemen’s business, and Tom and
Mr. Hardy wull settle it all for us, I am sure.”
Tom professed his entire willingness to ac-
cept the charge, delighted at finding himself re-
instated in his office of protector at Mary’s sug-
gestion. Had the landlord been one of his own
tradesmen, or the bill his own bill, he might not
have been so well pleased ; but, as neither of
these was the case, and he had Hardy to back
him, he went into the matter with much vigor
and discretion, and had the landlord up, made
the proper deductions, and got the bill settled
and receipted in a few minutes. Then he and
Hardy addressed themselves to getting the car-
riage comfortably packed, and vied with one
another in settling and stowing away in the
most convenient places the many little odds
and ends which naturally accompany young la-
dies and invalids on their travels; in the
course of which employment he managed to
snatch a few words here and there with Mary,
and satisfied himself that she bore him no ill-
will for the events of the previous day.

At last all was ready for the start, and Tom
reported the fact in the sitting-room. “ Then
I will go and fetch papa,” said Miss Winter.

Tom’s eyes met Mary’s at the moment. He
gave a slight shrug with his shoulders, and said,
as the door closed after his cousin, “Really I
have no patience with Uncle Robert ; he leaves
poor Katie to do every thing.”

“Yes; and how beautifully she does it all!
without a word or, I believe, a thought of com-
plaint! I could never be so patient.”

“I think it is a pity. If Uncle Robert W'ere
obliged to exert himself it would be much bet-
ter for him. Katie is only spoiling him, and
wearing herself out.”

“Yes, it is very easy for you and me to think
and say so. But he is her father ; and then he
is really an invalid. So she goes on devoting

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

147

herself to him more and more, and feels she
can never do too much for him.”

“But if she believed it would be better for
him to exert himself? I’m sure it is the truth.
Couldn’t you try to persuade her?”

“ No, indeed ; it would only worry her, and
be so cruel. But then I am not used to give
advice,” she added, after a moment’s pause,
looking demurely at her gloves; “it might do-
good, perhaps, now, if you were to speak to
her.”

“You think me so well qualified, I suppose,
after the specimen you had yesterday ? Thank
you ; I have had enough of lecturing for the
present.”

“I am very much obliged to you, really, for
what you said to me,” said Mary, still looking
at her gloves.

The subject was a A'cry distasteful one to Tom.
He looked at her for a moment to see whether
she was laughing at him, and then broke it off
abruptly :

“ I hope you have enjoyed your visit ?”

“Oh yes, so very much ! J shall think of it
all the summer.”

“Where shall you be all the summer?”
asked Tom.

“ Not so very far from you. Papa has taken
a house only eight miles from Englebourn, and
Katie says you live within a day’s drive of
them.”

“And shall you be there all the vacation ?”

“ Yes, and we hope to get Katie over often.
Could not you come and meet her ? it would be
so pleasant.”

“But do you think I might? I don’t know
your father or mother.”

“ Oil, yes ; papa and mamma are very kind,
and will ask any body I like. Besides, you
are a cousin, you know.”

“ Only up at Oxford, I am afraid.”

“Well now, you will see. We are going to
have a great archery party next month, and
you shall have an invitation.”

“Will you write it for me yourself?”

“ Very likely ; but why ?”

“ Don’t you think I shall value a note in your
hand more than — ”

“Nonsense! now remember your lecture —
Oh, here are uncle Robert and Katie.”

Mr. Winter was very gracious, and thanked
Tom for all his attentions. He had been very
pleased, he said, to make his nephew’s acquaint-
ance again so pleasantly, and hoped he would
come and pass a day or two at Englebourn in
the vacation. In his sad state of health he
could not do much to entertain a young man,
but he could procure him some good fishing and
shooting in the neighborhood. Tom assured his
uncle that nothing would please him so much as
a visit to Englebourn. Perhaps the remem-
brance of the distance between that parish and
the place where Mary was to spend the sum-
mer may have added a little to his enthusiasm.

“I should have liked also to have thanked
your friend for his hospitality,” Mr. Winter

went on. “ I understood my daughter to say
he was here.”

“Yes, he was here just now,” said Tom ; “he
must be below, I think.”

“ What, that good Mr. Hardy ?” said Mary,
who was looking out of the window ; “ there he
is in the street. He has just helped Hopkins
into the rumble, and handed her things to her
just as if she were a duchess. She has been so
cross all the morning, and now she looks quite
gracious.”

“ Then I think, papa, we had better start.”

“ Let me give you an arm down stairs, uncle,”
said Tom ; and so he helped his uncle down to
the carriage, the two young ladies following be-
hind, and the landlord standing with obsequi-
ous bows at his shop door, and looking as if he
had never made an overcharge in his life.

While Mr. Winter was making his acknowl-
edgments to Hardy, and being helped by him
into the most comfortable seat in the carriage,
Tom was making tender adieus to the two young
ladies behind, and even succeeded in keeping a
rose-bud which Mary was carrying, when they
took their seats. She parted from it half-laugh-
ingly, and the post-boy cracked his whip and the
barouche went lumbering along High Street.
Hardy and Tom watched it until it turned down
St. Aldate’s towards Folly-bridge, the latter wav-
ing his hand as it disappeared, and then they turn-
ed and strolled slowly away, side by side, in si-
lence. The sight of all the other departures in-
creased the uncomfortable, unsatisfied feeling
which that of his own relatives had already pro-
duced in Tom’s mind. '

“ Well, it isn’t lively stopping up here when
every body is going, is it ? What is one to do ?”
“ Oughtn’t you to be looking after your friends
who are coming up to try for the scholarships?”
“No, they won’t be up till the afternoon, by
coach.”

“ Shall we go down to the river, then ?”

“ No, it would be miserable. Hallo, look
here, what’s up?”

The cause of Tom’s astonishment was the
appearance of the usual procession of university
beadles carrying silver-headed maces, and es-
corting the Vice-Chancellor towards St. Mary’s.

“ Why, the bells are going for service ; there
must be a university sermon. Is it a saint’s
day?”

“Where’s the congregation to come from?
Why, half Oxford is off by this time, and those
that are left won’t want to be hearing sermons.”
“Well, I don’t know. A good many seem
to be going. I wonder who is to preach.”

“ I vote we go. It will help to pass the
time.”

Hardy agreed, and they followed the pro-
cession and went up into the gallery of St.
Mary’s. There was a very fair congregation in
the body of the church, as the staffs of the col-
leges had not yet broken up, and even in the
gallery the under-graduates mustered in some
force. The restless feeling which had brought
our hero there seemed to have had a like effect

148

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

on most of the men who were, for one reason or
another, unable to start on that day.

Tom looked steadily into his cap during the
bidding prayer, and sat down composedly after-
wards, expecting not to be much interested or
benefited, but comforted with tlie assurance
that at any rate it would be almost luncheon-
time before he would be again thrown on his
own resources. But he was mistaken in his
expectations, and before the preacher had been
speaking for three minutes, was all attention.
The sermon was upon the freedom of the Gos-
pel, the power by which it bursts all bonds and
lets the oppressed go free. Its burden was :
“Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall
make you free.” The preacher dwelt on many
sides of these words ; the freedom of nations,
of societies, of universities, of the conscience of
each individual man, were each glanced at in
turn ; and then, reminding his hearers of the
end of the academical year, he went on :

“We have heard it said in the troubles and
toils and temptations of the world :* ‘Oh that I
could begin life over again ! oh that I could fall
asleep, and wake up twelve, six, three months
hence, and find my difficulties solved!’ That
which we may vainly wish elsewhere, by a hap-
py Providence is furnished to us by the natural
divisions of meeting and parting in this place.
To every one of us, old and young, tlie long va-
cation on which we are now entering gives us a
breathing space, and time to break the bonds
which place and circumstance have woven round
us during the year that is past. From all our
petty cares, and confusions, and intrigues ; from
the dust and clatter of this huge machinery
amidst which we labor and toil ; from whatever
cynical contempt of what is generous and de-
vout ; from whatever fanciful disregard of what
is just and wise ; from whatever gall of bitter-
ness is secreted in our best motives ; from what-
ever bonds of unequal dealing in which we have
entangled ourselves or others, we are now for a
time set free. We stand, on the edge of a river
which shall for a time at least sweep them away ;
that ancient river, the River Kishon, the river of
fresh thoughts, and fresh scenes, and fresh feel-
ings, and fresh hopes : one, surely, among the
blessed means whereby God’s free and loving
grace works out our deliverance, our redemption
from evil, and renews the strength of each suc-
ceeding year, so that ‘ we may mount up again
as eagles, may run and not be weary, may walk
and not faint.’

“And if, turning to the younger part of my
hearers, I may still more directly apply this
general lesson to them, is there no one who,
in some shape or other, does not feel the bond-
age of which I have been speaking ? He has
something on his conscience ; he has something

* This quotation is from the sermon preached by Dr.
Stanley before the University, on Act Sunday, 1859
(published by J. H. Parker, of Oxfoi'd). I hope that
the distinguished professor whose words they are will
pardon the liberty I have taken in quoting them. No
words of my own could have given so vividly what I
wanted to say.

on his mind; extravagance, sin, debt, false-
hood. Every morning in the first few minutes
after waking, it is the first thought that occurs
to him : he drives it away in the day ; he drives
it off by recklessness, which only binds it more
and more closely round him. Is there any one
who has ever felt, who is at this moment feel-
ing, this grievous burden ? What is the de-
liverance ? How shall he set himself free ? In
what special way does the redemption of Christ,
the free grace of God, present itself to him ?
There is at least one way, clear and simple.
He knows it better than any one can tell him.
It is those same wmrds which I used with an-
other purpose: ‘The truth shall make him
free.’ It is to tell the truth to his friend, to his
parent, to any one, whosoever it be, from whom
he is concealing that which he ought to make
known. One word of open, frank disclosure
— one resolution to act sincerely and honestly by
himself and others — one ray of truth let into that
dark corner will indeed set the whole man free.

Liheravi anirnam meam. ‘ I have delivered
my soul.’ What a faithful expression is this of
the relief, the deliverance effected by one strong
effort of will in one moment of time ! ‘ I will

arise and go to my father, and will say unto
him. Father, I have sinned against Heaven and
before thee, and am no more worthy to be call-
ed thy son.’ So we heard the prodigal’s con-
fession this morning. So may the thought well
spring up in the minds of any who in the course
of this last year have wandered into sin, have
found themselves beset with evil habits of wick-
ed idleness, of wretched self-indulgence. Now
that you are indeed, in the literal sense of the
word, about to rise and go to your father ; now
that you will be able to shake off the bondage
of bad companionship; now that the whole
length of this long absence will roll between you
and the past — take a long breath, break off the
yoke of your sin, of your fault, of your wrong-
doing, of your folly, of your perverseness, of
your pride, of your vanity, of your weakness ;
break it off by truth, break it off by one stout
effort, in one steadfast prayer ; break it off by
innocent and free enjoyment ; break it off by
honest work. Put your ‘ hand to the nail, and
your right hand to the workman’s hammer:’
strike through the enemy which has ensnared
you, pierce and strike him through and through.
However powerful he seems, ‘ at your feet he
will bow, he will fall, he will lie down ; at your
feet he will bow and fall, and where he bows,
there will he rise up no more. So let all thine
enemies perish, O Lord ; but let them that love
Thee be as the sun when he goeth forth in his
might.’ ”

The two friends separated themselves from
the crowd in the porch and walked away, side
by side, towards their college.

“ Well, that wasn’t a bad move of ours. It
is worth something to hear a man preach that
sort of doctrine,” said Hardy.

“ How does he get to know it all?” said Tom,
meditatively.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ All what ? I don’t see your puzzle.” |
“Why, all sorts of things that are in a fel-
low’s mind— what he thinks about the first tiling I
in the morning, for instance.” I

“Pretty much like the rest of us, I take it —
by looking at home. You don’t suppose tliat
university preachers are unlike you and me.”
“Well, I don’t know. Now do you think
he ever had any thing on his mind that was al-
ways coming up and plaguing him, and which
he never told to any body ?”

“ Yes, I should think so ; most of us must
have had.”

“ Have you ?”

“ Aye, often and often.”

“ And you think his remedy the right one ?”
“ The only one. Make a clean breast of it
and the sting is gone. There is a great deal to
be done afterwards, of course : but there can be
no question about step No. 1.”

“ Did you ever owe a hundred pounds that
3’’Ou couldn’t pay ?” said Tom, with a sudden
etfort ; and his secret had hardly passed his lips
before he felt a relief which surprised himself.

“My dear fellow,” said Hardy, stopping in
the street,, “you don’t mean to say you are
speaking of yourself?”

“I do, though,” said Tom ; “and it has been
on my mind ever since Easter term, and has
spoilt my temper and every thing — that and
something else that you know of. You must
have seen me getting more and more ill-temper-
ed, I’m sure. And I have thought of it the first
thing in the morning and the last thing at night;
and tried to drive the thought away, just as he
said one did in his sermon. By J ove ! I thought
he knew all about it, for he looked right at me
just when he came to that place.”

“ But, Brown, how do you mean you owe a
hundred pounds ? You haven’t read much, cer-
tainly ; but you haven’t hunted, or gambled, or
tailored much, or gone into any other extrava-
gant folly. You must be dreaming.”

“ Am I, though ? Come up to my rooms
and I’ll tell you all about it : I feel better al-
ready, now I’ve let it out. I’ll send over for
your commons, and we’ll have some lunch/’
Hardy followed his friend in much trouble of
mind, considering in himself whether with the
remainder of his savings he could not make up
the sum which Tom had named. Fortunately
for both of them a short calculation showed him
that he could not, and he gave up the idea of
delivering his friend in this summary manner
with a sigh. He remained closeted with Tom
for an hour, and then came out looking serious
still, but not uncomfortable, and went down to
the river. He sculled down to Sandford, bathed
in the lasher, and returned in time for chapel.
He staid outside afterwards, and Tom came up
to him and seized his arm.

“I’ve done it, old fellow,” he said; “look
here ; ” and produced a letter. Hardy glanced at
the direction, and saw that it was to his father.

“ Come along and post it,” said Tom, “ and
then I shall feel all right.”

14D

I They walked off quickly to the post-office
and dropped the letter into the box.

I “There,” he said, as it disappeared, “ libera-

I vi anhnam vieam. I owe the preacher a good
turn for that; I’ve a good mind to write and
thank him. Fancy the poor old governor’s face
to-morrow at breakfast !”

“ Well, 3'ou seem to take it easy enough
now,” said Hardy.

“ I can’t help it. I tell you I haven’t felt so
jolly this two months. What a fool I was not
to have done it before. After all, now I come
to think of it, I can pay it myself, at least as
soon as I am of age, for I know I’ve some mon-
ey, a legacy or something, coming to me then.
But that isn’t what I care about now.”

“ I’m very glad, though, that you have the
money of your own.”

“Yes, but the having told it is all the com-
fort. Come along, and let’s see whether these
boys are come. The old Pig ought to be in by
this time, and I want them to dine in hall. It’s
only ten months since I came up on it to ma-
triculate, and it seems twenty years. But I’m
going to be a boy again for to-night ; you’ll see
if I’m not.”

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE LONG VACATION LETTEE-BAG.

“June 24, 184-.

“ My dear Tom, — Your letter came to liand
this morning, and it has, of course, given your
mother and me much pain. It is not the mon-
ey that we care about, but that our son should
have deliberately undertaken, or pretended to
undertake, what he must have known at the time
he could not perform himself.

“ I have written to my bankers to pay £100
at once to your account at the Oxford Bank.
I have also requested my solicitor to go over to
Oxford, and he will probably call on you the
day after you receive this. You say that this
person who holds your note of hand is now in
Oxford. You will see him in the presence of
my solicitor, to whom you will hand the note
when you have recovered it. I shall consider
afterwards what further steps will have to be
taken in the matter.

“ You will not be of age for a year. It will
be time enough then to determine whether you
will repay the balance of this money out of the
legacy to which you will be entitled under your
grandfather’s will. In the mean time, I shall
deduct at the rate of £50 a year from your al-
lowance, and I shall hold you bound in honor
to Induce your expenditure by this amount.
You are no longer a boy, and one of the first du-
ties which a man owes to his friends and to so-
ciety is to live within his income.

“I make this advance to you on two condi-
tions. First, that you will never again put your
hand to a note or bill in a transaction of this
kind. If j’ou have money, lend it or spend it.
You may lend or spend foolishly, but that is not

150

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

the point here ; at any rate, you are dealing with
what is your own. But in transactions of this
kind you are dealing with what is not your.own.
A gentleman should shrink from the possibility
of having to come on others, even on his own
father, for the fulfillment of his obligations, as
lie would from a lie. I would sooner see a son
of mine in his grave than crawling on through
life a slave to wants and habits which he must
gratify at other people’s expense.

“ My second condition is, that you put an end
to your acquaintance with these two gentlemen
who have led you into this scrape, and have di-
vided the proceeds of your joint note between
them. They are both your seniors in standing,
you say, and they appear to be familiar with this
plan of raising money at the expense of other
people. The plain English word for such do-
ings is, swindling. What pains me most is,
that you should have become intimate with
young men of this kind. I am not sure that it
will not be my duty to lay the whole matter be-
fore the authorities of the college. You do not
mention their names, and I respect the feeling
which has led you not to mention them. I
shall know them quite soon enough through my
solicitor, who will forward me a copy of the note
of hand and signatures in due course.

“Your letter makes general allusion to other
matters ; and I gather from it that you are dis-
satisfied with the manner in which you have
spent your first year at Oxford. I do not ask
for specific confessions, which you seem inclined
to offer me ; in fact, I would sooner not have
them, unless there is any other matter in which
you want assistance or advice from me. I know
from experience that Oxford is a place full of
temptation of all kinds, offered to young men at
the most critical time of their lives. Knowing
this, I have deliberately accepted the responsi-
bility of sending you there, and I do not repent
it. I am glad that you are dissatisfied with
your first year. If you had not been, I should
have felt much more anxious about your second.
Let by-gones be by-gones between you and me.
You know where to go for strength, and to make
confessions which no human ear should hear,
for no human judgment can weigh the cause.
The secret places of a man’s heart are for him-
self and God. Your mother sends her love.

“I am CA'cr your affectionate father,

“John Brown.”

“June 26th, 184-.

“My dear Boy, — I am not sorry that you
have taken my last letter as you have done. It
is quite right to be sensitive on these points, and
it will have done you no harm to have fancied
for forty-eight hours that you had, in my judg-
ment, lost caste as a gentleman. But now I am
very glad to be able to ease your mind on this
point. You have done a very foolish thing ;
but it is only the habit, and the getting others
to bind themselves, and not the doing it one’s
self for others, which is disgraceful. You are
going to pay honorably for your folly, and will

owe me neither thanks nor money in the trans-
action. I have chosen my own terms for re-
payment, which you have accepted, and so the
financial question is disposed of.

“I have considered what you say as to your
companions — friends I will not call them — and
will promise you not to take any further steps,
or to mention the subject to any one. But I
•must insist on my second condition, that you
avoid all further intimacy Avith them. I do not
mean that .you are to cut them, or do any thing
that Avill attract attention. But no more inti-
macy.

“And now, my dear boy, as to the rest of
your letter. Mine must, indeed, have failed to
express my meaning. God forbid that there
should not be the most perfect confidence be-
tween us. There is nothing which I desire or
value more. I only question whether special
confessions will conduce to it. My experience
is against them. I almost doubt whether they
can be perfectly honest between man and man ;
and, taking into account the difference of our
ages, it seems to- me much more likely that we
should misunderstand one another. But hav-
ing said this, I leave it to you to follow J-our
own conscience in the matter. If there is any
burden which I can help you to bear, it will be
my greatest pleasure, as it is my duty, to do it.
So now, say Avhat you please, or say no more.
If you speak, it will be to one Avho has felt and
remembers a young man’s trials.

“We hope you will be able to come home to-
morrow, or the next dajq at latest. Your moth-
er is longing to see you, and I should be glad to
have you here a day or two before the Assizes,
which are held next week. I should rather like
you to accompflny me to them, as it will give
me the opportunity of introducing you to my
brother magistrates from other parts of the coun-
ty, whom you are not likely to meet elsewhere,
and it is a good thing for a young man to know
his own county Avell.

“The cricket club is very flourishing, you
will be glad to hear, and they haA'e pat off their
best matches till your return : so you are in
great request, you see. I am told that the fish-
ing is very good this year, and am promised
several days for you in the club Avater.

“ September is a long Avay off, but there is
nothing like being befoi'ehand ; I haA^e put your
name doAvn for a license ; and it is time you
should have a good gun of your OAvn ; so I
have ordered one for you from a man Avho has
lately settled in the county. He Avas Purdy’s
foreman, Avith Avhom I used to build, and, I can
see, understands his business thoroughly. His
locks are as good as any I have ever seen. I
have told him to make the stock rather longer,
and not quite so straight as that of my old
double with Avhich you shot last year. I think
I remember you criticised my Aveapon ofi these
points ; but there Avill be time for you to alter
the details after you get home, if you disapprove
of my orders. It Avill be more satisfactory if it
is built under your OAvn eye.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

151

“If you continue in tlie mind for a month’s
reading with your friend Mr. Hardy, we will ar-
range it towards the end of the vacation ; but
would he not come here ? From what you say,
we should very much like to know him. Pray
ask him from me whether he will pass the last
month of the vacation here reading with you.
I should like you to be his first regular pupil.
Of course this will be my affair. And now, God
bless you, and come home as soon as you can.
Your mother sends her best love. Ever your
most aflfectionate, John Brown.”

“Englebourn Rectory, June 28th, 184-.

“Dearest Mary, — How good of you to
Avrite to me so soon ! Your letter has come
like a gleam of sunshine. I am in the midst of
Avorries already. Indeed, as you knoAV, I could
ne\'er quite throw off the fear of Avhat might
be happening here while Ave Avere enjoying our-
selves at Oxford, and it has all turned out even
worse than I expected. I shall never be able to
go aAvay again in comfort, I think. And yet,
if I had been here I don’t know that I could
have done any good. It is so very sad that poor
papa is unable to attend to his magisti-ate’s busi-
ness, and he has been Avorse than usual, quite
laid up, in fact, since our return. There is no
other magistrate — not cA'en a gentleman in the
place, as you know, except the curate ; and they
Avill not listen to him, CA^en if he would inter-
fere in their quarrels. But he says he Avill not
meddle Avith secular matters ; and, poor man, I
can not blame him, for it is A’ery.;3ad and Avear-
ing to be mixed up in it all.

“But noAV I must tell you all my ti’oubles.
You remember the men Avhom Ave saw mowing
together just before Ave Avent to Oxford. Betty
Winburn’s son Avas one of them, and lam afraid
the rest are not at all good company’ for him.
When they had finished papa’s hay, they Avent
to moAV for Farmer Tester. You must remem-
ber him, dear, I am sure — the tall, gaunt man,
Avith heavy, thick lips, and a broken nose, and
the top of his head quite flat, as if it had been
cut off a little above his eyebrows. He is a very
miserly man, and a hard master — at least all the
poor people tell me so, and he looks cruel. I have
always been afraid of him and disliked him, for
I remember as a child hearing papa complain
how troublesome he was in the vestry ; and ex-
cept old Simon, Avho, I believe, only does it from
perverseness, I have never heard any body speak
well of him.

“ The first day that the men Avent to mow for
Farmer Tester he gave them sour beer to drink.
You see, dear, they bargain to moAV for so much
money and their beer. They were A^ery discon-
tented at this, and they lost a good deal of time
going to complain to him about it, and they had
high words with him.

“ The men said that the beer Avasn’t fit for
pigs ; and the farmer said it Avas good enough
‘for such as they,’ and if they didn’t like his
beer they might buy their OAvn. In the evening,
too, he came doAvn and complained that the

moAving Avas bad, and then there Avere more
high Avords, for the men are very jealous about
their work. However, they Avent to Avork as
usual the next morning, and all might have
gone off quietly, but in the day Farmer Tester
found two pigs in his turnip-field Avhich adjoins
the common, and had them put in the pound.
One of these pigs belonged to Betty Winburn’s
son, and the other to one of the men Avho Avas
mowing Avith him ; so, Avhen they came home
at night, they found Avhat had happened.

“The constable is our pound-keeper, the lit-
tle man aa'Iio amused you so much ; he plays the
bass-viol in church. When ho puts any beasts
into the pound he cuts a stick in two, and gives
one piece to the person Avho brings the beasts
and keeps the other himself ; and the OAvner of
the beasts has to bring the other end of the stick
to him before he can let them out. Therefore
the owner, you see, must go to the person Avho
has pounded his beasts, and make a bargain
Avith him for payment of the damage Avhich
has been done, and so get back the other end
of the stick, Avhich they call the ‘ tally,’ to pro-
duce to the pound-keeper.

“ Well, the men Avent off to the constable’s
when they heard their j)igs Avere pounded, to
find who had the ‘ tally,’ and Avhen they found
it Avas Farmer Tester, they Avent in a body to
his house to remonstrate Avith him and learn
Avhat he set the damages at. The farmer used
dreadful language to them, I hear, and said they
Averen’t fit to have pigs, and must pay half a
croAvn for each pig before they should liaA'e the
‘ tally ;’ and the men irritated him by telling
him that his fences Avere a shame to the parish,
because he Avas too stingy to have them mend-
ed ; and that the pigs couldn’t have found half a
croAvn’s Avorth of turnips in the Avhole field, for
he never put any manure on it except Avhat he
could get off the road, which ought to belong
to the poor. At last the farmer drove them
aAvay, saying that he should stop the money out
of the price he Avas to pay for their mowing.

“Then there was very near being a riot in
the parish ; for some of the men are very reckless
people, and they went in the evening and blew
horns, and beat kettles before his house, till the
constable, Avho has behaved very Avell, per-
suaded them to go away.

“In the morning one of the pigs had been
taken out of the pound ; not Betty’s son’s, I am
glad to say — for no doubt it Avas very Avrong of
the men to take it out. The farmer was furi-
ous, and Avent Avith the constable in the morning
to find the pig, but they could hear nothing of it
anyAvhere. James Rope, the man to Avhom it
belonged, only laughecl at them, and said that
he never could keep his pig in himself, because
it Avas grandson to one of the acting pigs that
Avent about to the fairs, and all the pigs of that
family took to climbing naturally ; so his pig
must have climbed out of the pound. This of
course Avas all a story : the men had lifted tlie
pig out of the pound, and then killed it, so tliat
the farmer might not find it, and sold the meat

152

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

cheap all over the parish. Betty went to the
farmer that morning and paid the half-crown,
and got her son’s pig out before he came home ;
but Farmer Tester stopped the other half-crown
out of the men’s wages, which made matters
worse than ever.

“ The day that we were in the theatre at
Oxford, Farmer Tester was away at one of the
markets. He turns his big cattle out to graze
on the common, which the poor people say he
has no right to do, and in the afternoon a pony
of his got into the allotments, and Betty’s son
caught it, and took it to the constable and had
it put in the pound. The constable tried to
persuade him not to do it, but it was of no use ;
and so, when Farmer Tester came home, he
found that his turn had come. I am afraid that he
was not sober, for I hear that he behaved dread-
fully both to the constable and to Betty’s son ;
and when he found that he could not frighten
them, he declared he would have the law of them
if it cost him twenty pounds. So in the morn-
ing he went to fetch his lawyer, and when we
got home you can fancy what a scene it was.

“You remember how poorly papa was when
you left us at Lambourn. By the time we got
home he was quite knocked up, and so nervous
that he was fit for nothing except to have a
quiet cup of tea in his own room. I was sure,
as we drove up the street, there was something
the matter. The hostler was watching outside
the Red Lion, and ran in as soon as we came in
sight ; and, as we passed the door, out came
Farmer Tester, looking very flushed in the face,
and carrying his great iron-handled whip, and a
person with him, who I found was his lawyer,
and they marched after the carriage. Then the
constable was standing at his door too, and he
came after us, and there was a group of men
outside the rectory gate. We had not been in
the house five minutes before the servant came
in to say that Farmer Tester and a gentleman
wanted to see papa on particular business.
Papa sent out word he was very unwell, and
that it was not the proper time to come on bus-
iness ; he would see them the next day at twelve
o’clock. But they would not go away, and then
papa asked me to go out and see them. You
can fancy how disagreeable it was ; and I was
so angry with them for coming, when they knew
how nervous papa is after a journey, and I could
not have patience to persuade them to leave;
and so at last they made poor papa see them, af-
ter all.

“He was lying on a sofa, and quite unfit to
cope with a hard bad man like Farmer Tester,
and a fluent, plausible lawyer. They told their
story all their own way, and the farmer declared
that the man had tempted the pony into the al-
lotments with corn. And the lawyer said that
the constable had no right to keep the pony in
the pound, and that he was liable to all sorts of
punishments. They wanted papa to make an
order at once for the pound to be opened, and I
think he would have done so, but I asked him
in a whisper to send for the constable, and hear

what he had to say. The constable was wait-
ing in the kitchen, so he came in in a minute.
You can’t think how well he behaved ; I have
quite forgiven him all his obstinacy about the
singing. He told the whole story about the
pigs, and how Farmer Tester had stopped mon-
ey out of the men’s wages. And when the
lawyer tried to frighten him, he answered him
quite boldly, that he mightn’t know so much
about the law, but he knew what was always
the custom long before his time at Englebourn
about the pound, and if Farmer Tester wanted
his beast out, he must bring the ‘ tally ’ like an-
other man. Then the lawyer appealed to papa
about the law, and said how absurd it was, and
that if such a custom were to be upheld the man
who had the tally might charge £100 for the
damage. And poor papa looked through his law
books, and could find nothing about it at all;
and while he was doing it Farmer Tester began
to abuse the constable, and said he sided with
all the good-for-nothing fellows in the parish,
and that bad blood would come of it. But the
constable quite fired up at that, and told him
that it was such as he who made bad blood in
the parish, and that poor folks had their rights
as well as their betters, and should have them
while he was constable. If he got papa’s order
to open the pound, he supposed he must do it,
and ’twas not for him to say what was law ; but
Harry Winburn had had to get the ‘ tally ’ for
his pig from Farmer Tester, and what was fair
for one was fair for all.

“I was afraid papa would have made the or-
der, but the lawyer said something at last which
made him take the other side. So he settled
that the farmer should pay five shillings for the
‘ tally,’ which was what he had taken from Bet-
ty and had stopped out of the wages, and that
was the only order he would make, and the law-
yer might do what he pleased about it. The
constable seemed satisfied with this, and under-
took to take the money down to Harry Winburn,
for Farmer Tester declared he would sooner let
the pony starve than go himself. And so papa
got rid of them, after an hour and more of this
talk. The lawyer and Farmer Tester went
away grumbling, and very angry, to the Red
Lion. I was very anxious to hear how the
matter ended ; so I sent after the constable to
ask him to come back and see me when he had
settled it all, and about nine o’clock he came.
He had a very hard job to get Harry Winburn
to take the money and give up the ‘tally.’
The men said that if Farmer Tester could make
them pay half a crown for a pig in his turnips,
which were no bigger than radishes, he ought
to pay ten shillings at least for his pony tram-
pling down their corn, which was half-grown;
and I couldn’t help thinking this seemed very
reasonable. In the end, however, the constable
had persuaded them to take the money, and so
the pony was let out.

“ I told him how pleased I was at the way he
had behaved, but the little man didn’t seem quite
satisfied himself. He should have liked to have

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

153

given the lawyer a piece more of his mind, he
said, only he was no scholar ; ‘ but I’ve a got
all the feelins of a man, miss, though I medn’t
have the ways o’ bringin’ on ’em out.’ You see
I am quite coming round to your opinion about
him. But when I said that I hoped all the
trouble was over, he shook his head, and he
seems to think that the men will not forget it,
and that some of the wild ones will be trying to
pay Farmer Tester out in the winter nights, and I
could see he was very anxious about Harry Win-
burn ; so I promised him to go and see Betty.

“ I wenhdown to her cottage yesterday, and
found her very low, poor old soul, about her son.
She has had a bad attack again, and I am afraid
her heart is not right. She will not live long
if she has much to make her anxious, and how
is that to be avoided ? For her son’s courting
is all going wrong, she can see, though he will
not tell her any thing about it; but he gets
more moody and restless, she says, and don’t
take a pride in any thing, not even in his flowers
or his allotment ; and he takes to going about
more and more every day with these men, who
will be sure to lead him into trouble.

“ After I left her, I walked up to the Hawk’s
Lynch, to see whether the view and the air
would not do me good. And it did do me a
great deal of good, dear, and I thought of you,
and when I should see your bright face and
hear your happy laugh again. The village
looked so pretty and peaceful. I could hardly
believe, while I was up there, that there were
all these miserable quarrels and heartburnings
going on in it. I suppose they go on every-
where, but one can’t help feeling as if there
were something specially hard in those which
come under one’s own eyes, and touch one’s self.
And then they are so frivolous, and every thing
might go on so comfortably if people would only
be reasonable. I ought to have been a man, I
am sure, and then I might, perhaps, be able to
do more, and should have more influence. If
poor papa were only well and strong !

“ But, dear, I shall tire you with all these
long histories and complainings. I have run
on till I have no room left for any thing else ;
but you can’t think what a comfort it is to me to
write it all to you, for I have no one to tell it
to. I feel so much better, and more cheerful,
since I sat down to write this. You must give
my dear love to uncle and aunt, and let me hear
from you again whenever you have time. If
you could come over again and stay for a few
days it would be very kind; but I must not
press it, as there is nothing to attract you here,
only we might talk over all that we did and saw
at Oxford. Ever, dearest Mary, your very af-
fectionate cousin, Katie.

“ P.S. — I should like to have the pattern of
the jacket you wore the last day at Oxford.
Could you cut it out in thin paper, and send it
in your next ?”

“July—, 184-.

“ Mt dear Brown, — I was very glad to see
your hand, and to h«ar such flourishing ac-

counts of your vacation doings. You won’t get
any like announcement of me, for cricket has
not yet come so far west as this, at least not to
settle. We have a few pioneers and squatters
in the village ; but, I am sorry to say, nothing
yet like matches between the elevens of dis-
tricts. Neighbors we have none, except the
rector ; so I have plenty of spare time, some of
which I feel greatly disposed to devote to you ;
and I hope you won’t find me too tedious to
read.

“It is very kind of your father to wish that
you should be my first pupil, and to propose
that I should spend the last month of this vaca-
tion with you in Berkshire. But I do not like
to give up a whole month. My father is get-
ting old and infirm, and I can see that it would
be a great trial to him, although he urges it, and
is always telling me not to let him keep me at
home. What do you say to meeting me half-
waj-^ ? I mean, that you should come here for
half of the time, and then that I should return
with you for the last fortnight of the vacation.
This I could manage perfectly.

“But you can not in any case be my first
pupil ; for, not to mention that I have been, as
you know, teaching for some years, I have a
pupil here at this minute. You are not likely
to guess who it is, though you know him well
enough — perhaps I should say too well — so, in
a word, it is Blake. I had not been at home
three days before I got a letter from him asking
me to take him, and putting it in such a w'ay
that I couldn’t refuse. I would sooner not
have had him, as I had already got out of tak-
ing a reading party with some trouble, and felt
inclined to enjoy myself here in dignified idle-
ness till next term. But what can you do when
a man puts it to you as a great personal favor,
etc., etc. ? So I wrote to accept. You may im-
agine my disgust, a day or two afterwards, at get-
ting a letter from an uncle of his, some official
person in London apparently, treating the whole
matter in a business point of view, and me as if
I were a training groom. He is good enough
to suggest a stimulant to me in the shape of ex-
tra pay, and his future patronage in the event
of his nephew’s taking a first in Michaelmas
term. If I had received this letter before, I
think it would have turned the scale, and I
should have refused. But the thing was done,
and Blake isn’t fairly responsible for his rela-
tive’s views.

“ So here he has been for a fortnight. He
took a lodging in the village at first ; but of
course my dear old father’s ideas of hospitality
were shocked at this, and here he is, our inmate.

“He reads fiercely by fits and starts. A
feeling of personal hatred against the examiners
seems to urge him on more than any other mo-
tive ; but this will not be strong enough to keep
him to regular work, and without regular work
he won’t do, notwithstanding all his cleverness,
and he is a marvellously clever fellow. So the
first thing I have to do is to get him steadily
to the collar, and how to do it is a pretty par-

154

TOM BEOAVN AT OXFORD.

ticular puzzle ; for he hasn’t a grain of enthusi-
asm in his composition, nor any power, as far as
I can see, of throwing himself into the times
and scenes of which he is reading. The phi-
losophy of Greece and the history of Rome are
matters of perfect indifference to him — to be
got up by catch-words and dates for examina-
tion, and nothing more. I don’t think he Avould
care a straw if Socrates had never lived, or Han-
nibal had destroyed Rome. The greatest names
and deeds of the Old World are just so many
dead counters to him — the Jewish just as much
as the rest. I tried him with the story of the
attempt of Antiochus Epiphanes to conquer the
Jews, and the glorious rising of all that was
living in the Holy Land under the Maccabees.
Not a bit of it ; I couldn’t get a spark out of
him. He wouldn’t even read the story, because
it is in the Apocrypha, and so, as he said, the
d — d examiners couldn’t ask him any thing
about it in the schools.

“Then his sense of duty is quite undeveloped.
He has no notion of going on doing any thing
disagreeable because he ought. So here I am
at fault again . Ambition he has in abundance ;
in fact so strongly, that very likely it may in
the end pull him through, and make him work
hard enough for his Oxford purposes, at any rate.
But it wants repressing rather than encourage-
ment, and I certainly shan’t appeal to it.

“You will begin to think I dislike him and
want to get rid of him, but it isn’t the case.
You know what a good temper he has, and how
remarkably well he talks ; so he makes himself
very pleasant, and my father evidently enjoys
his company ; and then to be in constant inter-
course with a subtle intellect like his is pleasant-
ly exciting, and keeps one alive and at high-
pressure, though one can’t help always wishing
that it had a little heat in it. You would be
immensely amused if you could drop in on us.

“I think I have told you, or you must have
seen it for yourself, that my father’s principles
are true blue, as becomes a sailor of the time of
the great war, while his instincts and practice
are liberal in the extreme. Our rector, on the
contrary, is liberal in principles, but an aristo-
crat of the aristocrats in instinct and practice.
They are always ready enough, therefore, to do
battle, and Blake delights in the war, and fans
it, and takes part in it as a sort of free lance,
laying little logical pitfalls for the combatants
alternately, with that deferential manner of his.
He gets some sort of intellectual pleasure, I
suppose, out of seeing where they ought to tum-
ble in ; for tumble in they don’t, but clear his
pitfalls in their stride — at least my father does —
quite innocent of having neglected to distribute
his middle term ; and the rector, if he has some
inkling of these traps, brushes them aside, and
disdains to spend powder on any one but his old
adversary and friend. I employ myself in try-
ing to come down ruthlessly on Blake himself ;
and so we spend our evenings after dinner,
which comes off at the primitive hour of five.
We used to dine at three, but my father has

conformed now to college hours. If the rectoi
does not come, instead of argumentative talk,
we get stories out of my father. In the morn-
ings we bathe, and boat, and read. So you
see he and I have plenty of one another’s com-
pany, and it is certainly odd that we get on so
well with so very few points of sympathy. But
luckily, besides his good temper and cleverness,
he has plenty of humor. On the whole, I think
we shall rub through the two months which he
is to spend here without getting to hate one
another, though there is little chance of our
becoming friends. Besides putting some his-
tory and science into him (scholarship he does
not need), I shall be satisfied if I can make
him give up his use of the pronoun ‘ you ’ before
he goes. In talking of the corn laws, or for-
eign policy, or India, or any other political sub-
ject, however interesting, he never will identify
himself as an Englishman; and ‘■you do this,’
or ‘you expect that,’ is forever in his mouth,
speaking of his own countrymen. I believe if
the French were to land to-morrow on Portland,
he would comment on our attempts to dislodge
them as if he had no concern with the business
except as a looker-on.

“ You will think all this rather a slow return
for your jolly gossiping letter, full of cricket,
archery, fishing, and I know not what pleasant
goings-on. But what is one to do? One can
only write about what is one’s subject of inter-
est for the time being, and Blake stands in that
relation to me just now. I should prefer it
otherwise, but si on n'a pas ce qu'on aime il fdut
aimer ce qu'on a. I have no incident to relate ;
these parts get on without incidents somehow,
and without society. I wish there were some,
particularly ladies’ society. I break the tenth
commandment constantly, thinking of Com-
memoration, and that you are within a ride of
Miss Winter and her cousin. When you see
them next, pray present my respectful compli-
ments. It is a sort of consolation to think that
one may cross their fancy for a moment, and be
remembered as part of a picture which gives
them pleasure. With which piece of sentiment
I may as well shut up. Don’t you forget my
message now, and believe me, ever yours most
truly, John Haedy.

“P.S. — I mean to speak to Blake, when I
get a chance, of that wretched debt which you
have paid, unless you object. I should think
better of him if he seemed more uncomfortable
about his affairs. After all, he may be more so
than I think, for he is very reserved on such
subjects.”

“Englebourn Eectory, July, 1S4-.

“Deaeest Mary, — I send the coachman
with this note, in order that you may not be
anxious about me. I have just returned from
poor Betty Winburn’s cottage to write it. She
is very, very ill, and I do not think can last out
more than a day or two ; and she seems to cling
to me so that I can not have the heart to leave
her. Indeed if I could make up my mind to do
it, I should never get her poor white eager face

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

155

out of my head all day, so that I should be very
bad company, and quite out of place at your
party, making every body melancholy and un-
comfortable who came near me. So, dear, I
am not coming. Of course it is a great disap-
pointment. I had set my heart on being with
vou, and enjoying it all thoroughly ; and even at
breakfast this morning knew of nothing to hin-
der me. My dress is actually lying on the bed
at this minute, and it looks very pretty, especial-
ly the jacket like yours, which I and Hopkins
have managed to make up from the pattern you
sent, though you forgot the sleeves, which made
it rather hard to do. Ah, well ! it is of no use
to think of how pleasant things would have been
which one can not have. You must write me
an account of how it all went off, dear ; or per-
haps you can manage to get over here before
long to tell me.

“I must now go back to poor Betty. She
is such a faithful, patient old thing, and has
been such a good woman all her life, that there
is nothing painful in being by her now, and
one feels sure that it will be much happier and
better for her to be at rest. If she could only
feel comfortable about her son, I am sure she
would think so herself. Oh, I forgot to say
that her attack was brought on by the shock of
hearing that he had been summoned for an as-
sault. Farmer Tester’s son, a young man
about his own age, has, it seems, been of late
waylaying Simon's daughter and making love
to her. It is so very hard to make -out the
truth in matters of this kind. Hopkins says
she is a dressed-up little minx, who runs after
all the young men in the parish ; but really,
from what I see and hear from other persons,
I think she is a good girl enough. Even Bet-
ty, who looks on her as the cause of most of
her own trouble, has never said a word to make
me think that she is at all a light person, or
more fond of admiration than any other good-
looking girl in the parish.

“But those Testers are a very wicked set.
You can not think what a misfortune it is in a
place like this to have these rich fsxmilies with
estates of their own, in which the young men
begin to think themselves above the common
farmers. They ape the gentlemen, and give
themselves great airs, but of course no gentle-
man will associate with them, as they are quite
uneducated ; and the consequence is that they
live a great deal at home, and give themselves
up to all kinds of wickedness. This young
Tester is one of these. His father is a very
bad old man, and does a great deal of harm
here ; and tlie son is following in his steps, and
is quite as bad, or worse. So you see that I
shall not easily believe that Plarry Winburn
has been much in the wrong. How'ever, all I
know of it at present is that young Tester was
beaten by Harry yesterday evening in the vil-
lage street, and that they came to papa at once
for a summons.

“ Oh, here is the coachman ready to start ;
so I must conclude, dear, and go back to my pa-

tient. I shall often think of you during the
day. I am sure you will have a charming par-
ty. With best love to all, believe me ever,
dearest, your most aifectionate Katie.

“P.S. — I am very glad that uncle and aunt
take to Tom, and that he is staying with you
for some days. You will find him very useful
in making the party go off well, I am sure.”

CHAPTER XXX.

AMUSEMENTS AT CARTON MANOR.

“A LETTER, Miss, from Englebourn,” said a
footman, coming up to Mary with the note
given at the end of the last chapter, on a wait-
er. She took it and tore it open ; and, while
she is reading it, the reader may be introduced
to the place and company in which we find
her. The scene is a large old-fashioned square
brick house, backed by fine trees, in the tops of
which the rooks live, and the jackdaws and
starlings in the many holes W'hich time has
worn in the old trunks; but they are all away
on this fine summer morning, seeking their
meal and enjoying themselves in the neighbor-
ing fields. In front of the house is a pretty
flower-garden, separated by a haw-haw from a
large pasture, sloping southward gently down to
a stream, which glides along through water-
cress and willow beds to join the Kennet.
The beasts have all been driven off, and on the
upper part of the field, nearest the house, two
men are fixing up a third pair of targets on the
rich short grass; A large tent is pitched near
the archery-ground, to hold quivers and bow-
cases, and luncheon, and to shelter lookers-on
from the mid-day sun. Beyond the brook a
pleasant, well-timbered country lies, with high
chalk-downs for a horizon, ending> in Marl-
borough hill, faint and blue in the w6st. This
is the place which Mary’s father has taken for
the summer and autumn, and where she is fast
becoming the pet of the neighborhood.

It will not perhaps surprise our readers to
find that our hero has managed to find his way
to Barton Manor in the second week of the va-
cation, and, having made the most of his op-
portunities, is acknowledged as a cousin by Mr.
and Mrs. Porter. Their boys are at home for
the holidays, and Mr. Porter’s great wish is
that they should get used to the country in
their summer holidays. And as they have
spent most of their childhood and boyhood in
London, to which he has been tied pretty close-
ly hitherto, this is a great opportunity. The
boys only wanted a preceptor, and Tom pre-
sented himself at the right moment, and soon
became the hero of Charley and Neddy Porter.
He taught them to throw flies and bait craw-
fish nets, to bat-fowl, and ferret for rabbits, and
to saddle and ride their ponies, besides getting
up games of cricket in the spare evenings,
which kept him away from Mr. Porter’s dinner-
table. This last piece of self-denial, as he con-

156

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

sidered it, quite won over that gentleman, who
agreed with his wife that Tom was just the sort
of companion they would like for the boys, and
so the house was thrown open to him.

The boys were always clamoring for him
when he was away, and making their mother
write off to press him to come again ; which
he, being a very good-natured young man, and
particularly fond of boys, was ready enough to
do. So this was the third visit he had paid in
a month.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown wondered a little that
he should be so very fond of the young Porters,
who were good boys enough, but very much like
other boys of thirteen and fifteen, of whom
there were several in the neighborhood. He
had indeed just mentioned an elder sister, but
so casually that their attention had not been
drawn to the fact, which had almost slipped out
of their memories. On the other hand, Tom
seemed so completely to identify himself with
the boys and their pursuits, that it never oc-
curred to their father and mother, who were
dotingly fond of them, that, after all, they
might not be the only attraction. Mary seem-
ed to take very little notice of him, and went
on with her own pursuits much as usual. It
was true that she liked keeping the score at
cricket, and coming to look at them fishing or
rabbiting in her walks ; but all that was very
natural. It is a curious and merciful dispen-
sation of Providence that most fathers and
mothers seem never to be capable of remember-
ing their own experience, and will probably go
on till the end of time thinking of their sons
of twenty and daughters of sixteen or seventeen
as mere children, who may be allow'ed to run
about together as much as they please. And,
where it is otherwise, the results are not very
different, for there are certain mysterious ways
of holding intercourse implanted in the youth
of both sexes against wdiich no vigilance can
avail.

So on this, her great fete day, Tom had been
helping Mary all the morning in dressing the
rooms with flowers, and arranging all the de-
tails— where people were to sit at the cold din-
ner ; how to find the proper number of seats ;
how the dining-room was to be cleared in time
for dancing when the dew began to fall. In all
which matters there were many obvious occa-
sions for those little attentions which are much
valued by persons in like situations ; and Tom
was not sorry that the boys had voted the whole
preparations a bore, and had gone off to the
brook to “gropple” in the bank for crayfish till
the shooting began. The arrival of the note
had been the first contre-temps of the morning,
and they were now expecting guests to arrive
every minute.

‘ ‘ What is the matter ? No bad news, I hope, ”
he said, seeing her vexed expression.

“ Why, Katie can’t come ! I declare I could
sit down and cry. I shan’t enjoy the party a
bit now, and I wish it were all over.”

“I am sure Katie would be very unhappy if

she thought you were going to spoil your day’s
pleasure on her account.”

“Yes, I know she would. But it is so pro-
voking, when I had looked forward so to having
her ! ”

“ You have never told me why she can not
come. She was quite full of it all a few days
since.”

“Oh, there is a poor old woman in the vil-
lage dying, who is a great friend of Katie’s.
Here is her letter ; let me see,” she said, glanc-
ing over it to see that there was nothing in it
which she did not wish him to read, “you may
read it if you like.”

Tom began reading. “Betty Winburn,”
he said, when he came to the name, “ what,
poor dear old Betty! Why, I’ve known her
ever since I was born. She used to live in our
parish, and I haven’t seen her this eight years
nearly. And her boy Harry, I wonder what
has become of him ?”

“You will see, if you read on,” said Mary;
and so he read to the end, and then folded it up
and returned it.

“ So poor old Betty is dying. Well, she was
always a good soul, and very kind to me when
I was a boy. I should like to see her once
again, and perhaps I might be able to do some-
thing for her son.”

“ Why should we not ride over to Englebourn
to-morrow ? They will be glad to get us out of
the way while the house is being straightened.”
“I should like it, of all things, if it can be
managed.”

“ Oh, I will manage it somehow, fori must go
and see that dear Katie. I do feel so ashamed
of myself when I think of all the good she is do-
ing, and I do nothing but put flowers about, and
play the piano. Isn’t she an angel, now ?”

“Of course she is.”

“ Yes ; but I won’t have that sort of matter-
of-course acquiescence. Now, do you really
mean that Katie is as good as an angel ?”

“As seriously as if I saw the wings growing
out of her shoulders, and dew-drops hanging on
them.”

“You deserve to have something not at all
like wings growing out of your head 1 How is
it that you never see when I don’t want you to
talk your nonsense ?”

“How am I to talk sense about angels? I
don’t know any thing about them.”

“ You know what I mean perfectl3\ I say
that dear Katie is an angel, and I mean that I
don’t know any thing in her — no, not one single
thing — which I should like to have changed. If
the angels are all as good as she — ”

‘■’■If! why, I shall begin to doubt your ortho-
doxy.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

‘ ‘ It doesn’t matter what you were going to
say. You couldn’t have brought that sentence
to an orthodox conclusion. Oh, please don’t
look angry, now. Yes, I quite see what you
mean. You can think of Katie just as she is
now, in Heaven, without being shocked.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

157

Mary paused for a moment before she answer-
ed, as if she were rather taken by surprise at this
way of putting her meaning, and then said, seri-
ously :

“Indeed I can. I think we should all be
perfectly happy if we were all as good as she
is.”

“But she is not very happy herself, I am
afraid.”

“ Of course not. How can she be, when all
the people about her are so troublesome, and
selfish ?”

“I can’t fancy an angel the least like Uncle
Robert, can you?”

“ I won’t talk about angels any more. You
have made me feel quite as if I had been saying
something wicked.”

“Now really it is too hard that you should
lay the blame on me, Avhen you began the sub-
ject yourself. You ought, at least, to let me
say what I have to say about angels.”

“ Why, you said you knew nothing about
them, half a minute ago.”

“But I may have my notions, like other peo-
ple. You have your notions. Katie is your
angel.”

“ Well, then, what are your notions ?”
“Katie is rather too dark for my idea of an
angel, I can’t fancy a dark angel.”

“ Why, how can you call Katie dark ?”

“ I only say she is too dark for .my idea of an
angel.”

“ Well, go on.”

“Then, she is rather too grave.”

“ Too grave for an angel !”

“ For my idea of an angel — one doesn’t want
one’s ^ngel to be. like one’s self, and I am so
grave, you know.”

“Yes, very. Then your angel is to be a
laughing angel. A laughing angel, and yet
very sensible ; never talking nonsense.”

“Oh, I didn’t say that.”

“But you said he wasn’t to be like you.”
“He.' who in the world do you mean by
he ?"

“Why, your angel, of course.”

‘ ‘ My angel ! You don’t really suppose that
my angel is to be a man.”

“I have no time to think about it. Look,
they are putting those targets quite crooked.
You are responsible for the targets ; we must go
and get them straight.”

They walked across the ground towards the
targets, and Tom settled them according to his
notions of opposites.

“After all, archery is slow work,” he said,
when the targets were settled satisfactorily. “I
don’t believe any body really enjoys it.”

“ Now that is because you men haven’t it all
to yourselves. You are jealous of any sort of
game in which we can join. I believe you are
afraid of being beaten by us.”

“ On the contrary, that is its only recom-
mendation, that you can join in it.”

“Well, I think that ought to be recommenda-
tion enough. But I believe it is much harder

than most of your games. You can’t shoot half
so well as you play cricket, can you?”

“ No, because I never practise. It isn’t ex-
citing to be walking up and down between two
targets, and doing the same thing over and over
again. Why, you don’t find it so yourself.
You hardly ever shoot.”

“ Indeed I do, though, constantly.”

“ Why, I have scarcely ever seen you shoot-
ing.”

“That is because you are away with the boys
all day.”

“ Oh, I am never too far to know what is go-
ing on. I’m sure you have never practised for
more than a quarter of an hour any day that I
have been here.”

“Well, perhaps I may not have. But I tell
you I am very fond of it.”

Here the two boys came up from the brook,
Neddy with his Scotch cap full of crayfish.

“ Why, you w'retched boys, where have you
been ? You are not fit to be seen !” said Mary,
shaking the arrows at them which she was car-
rying in her hand. “ Go and dress directly, or
you will be late. I think I heard a canuage
drive up just now.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of time. Look what
whackers. Cousin Tom,” said Charley, holding
out one of his prizes by its back towards Tom,
while the indignant cray-fish flapped its tail and
worked about with its claws, in the hopes of get-
ting hold of something to pinch.

“I don’t believe those boys have been dry
for two hours together in daylight since you first
came here,” said Mary to Tom.

“ Well, and they’re all the better for it, I’m
sure,” said Tom.

“Yes, that we are,” said Charley.

“ I say, Charley,” said Tom, “your sister says
she is very fond of shooting.”

“Aye, and so she is. And isn’t she a good
shot, too ! I believe she would beat you at fif-
ty yai'ds.”

“ There now, you see you need not have been
so unbelieving,” said Mary.

“Will you give her a shot at your new hat.
Cousin Tom ?” said Neddy.

“ Yes, Neddy, that I will and he added to
Mary, ‘ ‘ I will bet you a pair of gloves you don’t
hit it in three shots.”

“ Very well,” said Mary : “ at thirty yards.”
“No, no! fifDy yards was the named dis-
tance.”

“ No, fifty yards is too far. Why, your hat
is not much bigger than the gold.”

“ Well, I don’t mind splitting the difference ;
we will say forty.”

“ Very well — three shots at forty yards.”

“ Yes ; here, Charley, run and hang my hat
on that target.” The boys rushed off with the
hat — a new white one — and hung it with a bit
of string over the centre of one of the targets,
and then, stepping a little aside, stood, clapping
their hands, shouting to Mary to take good aim.

“ You must string my bow,” she said, hand-
ing it to him as she buckled on her guard.

158

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ Now, do you repent ? I am going to do my
best, mind, if I do shoot.”

“I scorn repentance: do your worst,” said
Tom, stringing the bow and handing it back to
her. “ And now I will hold your arrows ; here
is the forty yards.”

Mary came to the place which he had step-
ped, her eyes full of fun and mischief ; and he
saw at once that she knew what she was about,
as she took her position and drew the first ar-
row. It missed the hat by some three inches
only, and the boys clapped and shouted.

“ Too near to be pleasant,” said Tom, hand-
ing the second arrow. “ I see you can shoot.”

“ Well, I will let you oft' still.”

“ Gloves and all ?”

“No, of course you must pay the gloves.”

“Shoot away, then. Ah, that will do,” he
cried, as the second arrow struck considerably
above the hat, “ I shall get my gloves yet,” and
he handed the third arrow. They were too in-
tent on the business in hand to observe that Mr.
and Mrs. Porter and several guests were already
on the hand-bridge which crossed the haw-haw.

Mary drew her third arrow, paused a mo-
ment, loosed it, and this time with fatal aim.

The boys rushed to the target, towards which
Mary and Tom also hurried, Mr. and Mrs. Por-
ter and the new-comers following more quietly.

“Oh, look here — what fun!” said Charley,
as Tom came up, holding up the hat spiked on
the arrow, which he had drawn out of the tar-
get.

“What a wicked shot !” he said, taking the
hat and turning to Mary. “ Look here, you have
actually gone through three places — through
crown, and side, and brim.”

Mary began to feel quite sorry at her own
success, and looked at the wounded hat sorrow-
fully.

“ Hullo ! look here — here’s papa and mam-
ma and some people, and we ain’t dressed.
Come along Neddy,” and the boys made off to-
wards the back premises, while Mary and Tom,
turning round, found themselves in the presence
of Mr. and Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Brown, and two or
three other guests. *

CHAPTER XXXI.

BEHIND THE SCENES.

Mr. and Mrs. Brown had a long way to drive
home that evening, including some eight miles
of very indifferent chalky road over the downs
which separate the Vale of Kennet from the
Vale of White Horse. Mr. Brown was an ear-
ly man, and careful of his horses, who respond-
ed to his care by being always well up to much
more work than they were ever put to. The
drive to Barton Manor and back in a day was a
rare event in their lives. Their master, taking
this fact into consideration, was bent on giving
*them plenty of time for the return journey, and
had ordered his groom to be ready to start by

eight o’clock. But, that they might not dis-
turb the rest by their early departure, he had
sent the carriage to the village inn instead of to
the Porters’ stables.

At the appointed time, therefore, and when
the evening’s amusements were just beginning
at the manor house, Mr. Brown sought out his
wife; and, after a few words of leave-taking to
their host and hostess, the two slipped quietly
away and walked down the village. The car-
riage was standing before the inn all ready for
them, with the hostler and Mr. Brown’s groom
at the horses’ heads. The carriage Avas a high
phaeton having a roomy front seat with a hood
to it, specially devised by Mr. Brown with a
view to his wife’s comfort, and that he might
with a good conscience enjoy at the same time
the pleasures of her society and of driving his
own horses. When once in her place Mrs.
Brown was as comfoi'table as she Avould have
been in the most luxurious bai'ouche with C
springs, but the ascent was certainly rather a
drawback. The pleasure of sitting by her hus-
band and of receiving his assiduous help in the
preliminary climb, however, more than compen-
sated to Mrs. Brown for this little inconvenience.

Mr. Brown helped her up as usual, and ar-
ranged the plaid carefully ov^er her knees, the
weather being too hot for the apron. Pie then
proceeded to walk round the horses, patting
them, examining the bits, and making inquiries
as to how they had fed. Having satisfied him-
self on these points, and feed the hostler, he
took the reins, seated himself by his wife, and
started at a steady pace toward the hills at the
back of Barton village.

For a minute or two neither of them spoke,
Mr. Brown being engrossed with his horses and
she with her thoughts. Presently, however, he
turned to her, and, having ascertained that she
was quite comfortable, went on —

“Well, my dear, what do you think of them ?”
“ Oh, I think they are agreeable people,” an-
swered Mrs. BroAvn ; “but one can scarcely
judge from seeing them to-day. It is too far for
a drive ; we shall not be home till midnight.”
“But I am very glad we came. After all,
they are connections through poor Robert, and
he seems anxious that they should start well in
the county. Why, he has actually written
twice, you know, about our coming to-day. We
must try to show them some civility.”

“It is impossible to come so far often,” Mrs.
Brown persisted.

“It is too far for ordinary visiting. What
do you say to asking them to come and spend a
day or two with us?”

“ Certainlj", my dear, if you wish it,” answer-
ed Mrs. Brown, but without much cordiality in
her A’oice.

“Yes, I should like it; and it will please
Robert so much. We might have him and Katie
over to meet them, don’t you think ?”

“Let me see,” said Mrs. Brown, Avith much
more alacrity, “Mr. and Mrs. Porter Avill have
the best bed-room and dressing-room ; Robert

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

159

must have the south room, and Katie the chintz.
Yes, that will do ; I can manage it A'ery well.”
“And their daughter? you have forgotten
her.”

“ Well, you see, dear, there is no more room.”
“Why, tliere is the dressing-room, next to
the south room, with a bed in it. I’m sure
nobody can want a better room.”

“ You know, John, that Robert can not sleep
if there is the least noise. I could never put
any one into his dressing-room ; there is only
a single door between the rooms, and, even if
they made no noise, the fancy that some one
was sleeping there would keep him awake all
night.”

“Plague take his fancies ! Robert has given
way to them till he is fit for nothing. But you
can put him in the chintz room, and give the
two girls the south bedroom and dressing-
room.”

“What! put Robert in a room which looks
north I My dear John, what can you be think-
ing about ?”

Mr. Brown uttered an impatient grunt, and,
as a vent to his feelings more decorous, on the
whole, than abusing his brother-in-law, drew his
whip more smartly than usual across the backs
pf his horses. The exertion of muscle necessary
to reduce those astonished animals to their ac-
customed steady trot restored his temper, and he
returned to the charge.

“ I suppose we must manage it on the second
floor, then, unless you could get a bed run up
in the school-room.”

“No, dear; I really should not like to do
that — it would be so very inconvenient. We
are always wanting the room for workwomen or
servants besides, I keep my account-books and
other things there.”

“Then I'm afraid it must be on the second
floor. Some of the children must be moved.
The girl seems a nice girl, with no nonsense
about her, and won’t mind sleeping up there.
Or, why not put Katie up stairs?”

“Indeed, I should- not think of it. Katie is
a dear good girl, and I will not put any one over
her head.”

“Nor I, dear. On the contrary, I was ask-
ing you to put her over another person’s head,”
said Mr. Brown, laughing at his own joke.
This unusual reluctance on the part of his wife
to assist in carrying out any hospitable plans of
his began to strike him ; so, not being an adept
at concealing his thoughts, or gaining his point
by any attack except a direct one, after driving
on for a minute in silence, he turned suddenly
on his wife, and said,

“ Why, Lizzie, you seem not to want to ask
the girl ?”

“ Well, John, I do not see the need of it at
all.”

“ No, and you don’t want to ask her?”

“ If you must know, then, I do not.”

“ Don’t you like her ?”

“I do not know her well enough' either to
like or dislike.’*

“Then why not ask her, and see what she is
like ? But the truth is, Lizzie, you have taken
a prejudice against her.”

“Well, John, I think she is a thoughtless
girl, and extravagant ; not the sort of girl, in
fact, that I should wish to be much with us.”
“Thoughtless and extravagant!” said Mr.
Brown, looking grave ; “how you women can
be so sharp on one another ! Her dress seemed
to me simple and pretty, and her manners very
lady-like and pleasing.”

“ You seem to have quite forgotten about
Tom’s hat,” said Mrs. Brown.

“Tom’s white hat — so I had,” said Mr.
Brown, and he relapsed into a low laugh at
the remembrance of the scene. “I call that
his extravagance, and not hers.”

“It was a new hat, and a very expensive
one, which he had bought for the vacation, and
it is quite spoilt.”

“ Well, my dear ; really, if Tom will let girls
shoot at his hats, he must take the consequen-
ces. He must wear it with the holes, or buy
another.”

“How can he afford another, John? you
know how poor he is.”

Mr. Brown drove on now for several min-
utes without speaking. He knew perfectly
well what his wife was coming to now, and,
after weighing in his mind the alternatives of
accepting battle or making sail and changing
the subject altogether, said,

“You know, my dear, he has brought it on
himself. A headlong, generous sort of young-
ster, like Tom, must bo taught early that he
can’t have his cake and eat his cake. If he
likes to lend his money, he must find out that
he hasn’t it to spend.”

“Yes, dear, I quite agree with you. But
£50 a year is a great deal to make him pay.”

“ Not a bit too much, Lizzie. His allow-
ance is quite enough without it to keep him
like a gentleman. Besides, after all, he gets it
in meal or in malt ; I have juSt paid £25 for his
gun.”

“I know how kind andliberal you are to him ;
only I am so afraid of his getting into debt.”

“ I wonder what men would do, if they hadn’t
some soft-hearted woman always ready to take
their parts and pull them out of scrapes ?” said
Mr. Brown. “ Well, dear, how much do you
want to give the boy ?”

“Twenty -five pounds, just for this year.
But out of my own allowance, John.”

“ Nonsense !” replied Mr. Brown ; “ you want
your allowance for yourself and the children.”

“ Indeed, dear John, I would sooner not do it
at all, then, if I may not do it out of my own
money.”

“ Well, have it your own way. I believe
you would always look well dressed, if you
never bought another gown. Then, to go back
to what we were talking about just now — you
will find a room for the girl somehow ?”

“ Yes, dear, certainly, as I see you are bent
on it.”

160

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“I think it would be scarcely civil not to ask
her, especially if Katie comes. And I own I
think her very pretty, and have taken a great
fancy to her.”

“Isn’t it odd that Tom should never have
said any thing about her to us ? He has talked
of all the rest till I knew them quite well be-
fore I went there.”

“No; it seems tome the most natural thing
in the world.”

“ Yes, dear, very natural. But I can’t help
wishing he had talked about her more ; I should
think it less dangerous.”

“ Oh, you think Master Tom is in love with
her, eh ?” said Mr. Brown, laughing.

“ More unlikely things have happened. You
take it very easily, John.”

“ Well, we have all been boys and girls, Liz-
zie. The world hasn’t altered much, I suppose,
since I used to get up at five on winter mornings,
to ride some twenty miles to cover, on the chance
of meeting a young lady on a gray pony. I re-
member how my poor dear old father used to
wonder at it, when our hounds met close by, in
a better country. I’m afraid I forgot to tell
him what a pretty creature ‘ Gypsy ’ was, and
how well she was ridden.”

“But Tom is only twenty, and he must go
into a profession.”

“ Yes, yes ; much too young, I know — too
young for any thing serious. We had better
see them together, and then, if there is any
thing in it, we can keep them apart. There
can not be much the matter yet.”

“Well, dear, if you are satisfied, I am sure I
am.”

And so the conversation turned on other sub-
jects, and Mr. and Mrs. Brown enjoyed their
moonlight drive home through the delicious
summer night, and were quite sorry when the
groom got down from the hind seat to open
their own gates, at half past twelve.

About the same time the festivities at Barton
Manor Avere coming to a close. There had
been cold dinner in the tent at six, after the
great match of the day ; and, after dinner, the
announcement of the scores, and the distribu-
tion of prizes to the Avinners. A certain
amount of toasts and speechifying followed,
Avhich the ladies sat through Avith the most ex-
emplary appearance of being amused. AYhen
their healths had been proposed and acknoAvl-
edged, they retired, and were soon followed by
the younger portion of the male sex ; and,
while the J.P.’s and clergymen sat quietly at
their wine, Avhich Mr. Porter took care should
be remarkably good, and their wives Avent in to
look over the house and have tea, their sons
and daughters split up into groups, and some
shot handicaps, and some walked about and
flirted, and some played at bowls or lawn bill-
iards. And soon the band appeared again
from the servants’ hall, mightily refreshed ;
and dancing began on the grass, and in due
time Avas transferred to the tent, Avhen the grass
got damp Avith the night dew; and then to

the hall of the house, when the lighting of the
tent began to fail. And then there came a
supper, extemporized out of the remains of the
dinner ; after which, papas and mammas began
to look at their watches, and remonstrate with
daughters coming up with sparkling eyes and
hair a little shaken out of place, and pleading
for “just one more dance.” “You have been
going on ever since one o’clock,” remonstrated
the parents ; “And are ready to go on till one
to-morrow,” replied the children. By degrees,
however, the frequent sound of wheels was
heard, and the dancers got thinner and thinner,
till, for the last half-hour, some half-dozen
couples of young people danced an intermina-
ble reel, while Mr. and Mrs. Porter, and a feAV
of the most good-natured matrons of the neigh-
borhood looked on. Soon after midnight the
band struck ; no amount of negus could get
any thing more out of them but “ God save the
Queen,” Avhich tliey accordingly played and de-
parted ; and then came the final cloaking and
driving off of the last guests. Tom and Mary
saAv the last of them into their carriage at the
hall-door, and lingered a moment in the porch.

“What a lovely night !” said Mary. “ How
I hate going to bed !”

“It is a dreadful bore,” answered Tom ; “but
here is the butler waiting to shut up : we must
go in.”

“ I Avonder where papa and mamma are.”

“ Oh, they are only seeing things put a little
to rights. Let us sit here till they come ; they
must pass by to get to their rooms.”

So the tAvo sat down on some hall chairs.

“ Oh dear! I wish it were all coming over
again to-morroAv, ” said Tom, leaning back and
looking up at the ceiling. “ By-the-Avay, re-
member I owe you a pair of gloves ; Avhat col-
or shall they be ?”

“Any color you like. I can’t bear to think
of it. I felt so dreadfully ashamed when they
all came up, and your mother looked so grave ;
I am sure she was very angry.”

“Poor mother! she was thinking of my hat
Avith three arrow-holes in it.”

“ Well, I am very sorry, because I wanted
them to like me.”

“And so they Avill; I should like to knoAV
who can help it.”

“Now, I won’t haAm any of your nonsensical
compliments. Do you think they enjoyed the
day?”

“Yes, I am sure they did. My father said
be had never liked an archery meeting so
much.”

“But they went away so early.”

“ They had a very long driA'e, you know\
Let me see,” he said, feeling in his breast-pock-
et, “mother left me a note, and I have never
looked at it till now.” He took a slip of paper
out and read it, and his face fell.

“What is it?” said Mary, leaning forward.

“Oh, nothing; only I must go to-morrow
morning*.”

“There! I Avas sure she Avas angry.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

lO’i

“No, no ; it was written this morning before
she came here. I can tell by the paper.”

“But she will not let you stay here a day,
you see.”

“I have been here a good deal, considering
all things. I should like never to go away.”
“Perhaps papa might find a place for you, if
you asked him. Which should you like — to
be tutor to the boys, or gamekeeper?”

“ On the whole, I should prefer the tutorship
at present; you take so much interest in the
boys.”

“Yes, because they have no one to look after
them now in the holidays. But, when you
come as tutor, I shall wash my hands of them.”
“ Then I shall decline the situation.”

“ How are you going home to-morrow ?”

“I shall ride round by Englebourn. They
wish me to go round and see Katie and Uncle
Robert. You talked about riding over there
yourself this morning.”

“ I should like it so much. But how can we
manage it? I can’t ride back again by my-
self.”

“ Couldn’t you stay and sleep there ?”

“I will ask mamma. No, I’m afraid it can
hardly be managed and so saying, Mary lean-
ed back in her chair, and began to pull to pieces
some flowers she held in her hand.

“Don’t pull them to pieces; give them to
me,” said Tom. “ I have kept the rosebud you
gave me at 0:;tford, folded up in — ”

“ Which you took, you mean to say. No, I
won’t give you any of them — or, let me see —
yes, here is a sprig of lavender ; you may have
that.”

“ Thank you. But why lavender?”
“Lavender stands for sincerity. It will re-
mind you of the lecture you gave me.”

“I wish you would forget that. But you
know what flowers mean, then ? Do give me a
lecture: you owe me one. What do those
flowers mean which you will not give me — the
piece of heather, for instance ?”

“ Heather signifies constancy.”

“ And the carnations ?”

“Jealousy.”

“ And the heliotrope ?”

“ Oh, never mind the heliotrope.”

“But it is such a favorite of mine. Do tell
me what it means ?”

“ Je vous aime,^' said Mary, with a laugh, and
a slight blush ; “ it is all nonsense. Oh, here’s
maiiima at last,” and she jumped up and went
to meet her mother, who came out of the draw-
ing-room, candle in hand.

“My dear Mary, I thought you were gone to
bed,” said Mrs. Potter, looking from one to the
other seriously.

“ Oh, I’m not the least tired, and I couldn’t
go without wishing you and papa good-night,
and thanking you for all the trouble you have
taken.”-

“Indeed, we ought all to thank you,” said
Tom: “ every body said it was the pleasantest
party they had ever been at.”

“I am very glad it went off well,” said Mrs.
Porter, gravely ; “ and now, JMary, you must go
to bed.”

“I am afraid I must leave you to-morrow
morning,” said Tom.

“Yes ; Mrs. Brown said they expect you .at
home to-morrow.”

“I am to ride round by Uncle Robert’s;
would you like one of the boys to go with me?”

“ Oh, dear mamma, could not Charley and I
ride over to Englebourn ? I do so long to see
Katie.”

“ No, dear ; it is much too far for you. We
will drive over in a few days’ time.”

And, so saying, Mrs. Porter wislied Tom
good-night, and led off her daughter.

Tom went slowly up stairs to his room, and,
after packing his portmanteau for the carrier to
take in the morning, threw up his window and
leaned out into the night, and watched the light
clouds swimming over the moon, and the silver
mist folding the water-meadows and willows in
its soft cool mantle. His thoughts were such
as will occur to any reader who has passed the
witching age of twenty; and the scent of the
heliotrope-bed, in the flower-garden below,
seemed to rise very strongly on the night air.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A CRISIS.

In the forenoon of the following day Tom
rode slowly along the street of Englebourn to-
wards the Rectory gate. He had left Barton
soon after breakfast, without having been able
to exchange a word with Mary except in the
presence of her mother, and yet he had felt
more anxious than ever before at least to say
good-bye to her without witnesses. With tliis
view he had been up early, and had whistled a
tune in the hall, and held a loud conversation
with the boys, who appeared half-dressed in the
gallery above, while he brushed the dilapidated
white hat, to let all whom it might concern
know that he was on the move. Then he had
walked up and down the garden in full view of
the windows till the bell rang for prayers. He
was in the breakfast-room before the bell had
done ringing, and Mrs. Porter, followed by her
daughter, entered at the same moment. Ho
could not help fiincying that the conversation at
breakfast was a little constrained, and particu-
larly remarked that nothing was said by the
heads of the family when the boys vociferously
bewailed his approaching departure, and tried
to get him to name some day for his return be-
fore their holidays ended. Instead of encour-
aging the idea, Mrs. Porter reminded Neddy
and Charley that they had only ten days more,
and had not yet looked at the work they had to
do for their tutor in the holidays. Immediate-
ly after breakfast Mrs. Porter had wished him
good-bye herself very kindly, but (he could not
help thinking) without that air of near relation-

162

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ship -which he had flattered himself was well
established between himself and all the mem-
bers of the Porter family ; and then she had
added, “ Now, Mary,- you must say good-bye ; I
want you to come and help me with some work
this morning.” He had scarcely looked at her
all the morning, and now one shake of the hand
and she was spirited away in a moment, and
he was left standing, dissatisfled and uncomfort-
able, with a sense of incompleteness in his mind
and as if he had had a thread in his life sudden-
ly broken off which he could not tell how to get
joined again.

However, there was nothing for it but to get
off. He had no excuse for delay, and had a
long ride before him ; so he and the boys went
round to the stable. On their passage through
the garden the idea of picking a nosegay and
sending it to her by one of the boys came into
his head. He gathered the -flowers, but then
thought better of it, and threw them away.
What right, after all, had he to be sending
flowers to her ; above all, flowers to which they
had attached a meaning — ^jokingly, it -was true,
but still a meaning? No, he had no right to
do it ; it would not be fair to her, or her father
or mother, after the kind way in which they
had all received him. So he threw away the
flowers, and mounted and rode oft’, watched by
the boys, who waved their straw hats as he
looked back just before coming to a turn in the
road which would take him out of sight of the
Manor House. He rode along at a foot’s pace
for some time, thinking over the events of the
past week ; and then, beginning to feel purpose-
less, and somewhat melancholy, urged his horse
into a smart trot along the waste land which
skirted the road. But, go what pace he would,
it mattered not; he could not leave his thoughts
behind. So he pulled up again after a mile or
so, slaekened his reins, and, leaving his horse to
pick his own way along the road, betook him-
self to the serious consideration of his position.

The more he thought of it the more discon-
tented he became, and the day clouded over as
if to suit his temper. He felt as if within the
last twenty-four hours he had been somehow
unwarrantably interfered with. His mother
and Mrs. Porter had both been planning some-
thing about him, he felt sure. If they had any
thing to say, why couldn’t they say it out
to him? But w^hat could there be to say?
Couldn’t he and Mary be trusted together with-
out making fools of themselves? He did not
stop to analyze his feelings towards her, or to
consider whether it was very prudent or desira-
ble for her that they should be thrown so con-
stantly and unreservedly together. He was too
much taken up with what he chose to consider
his own wrongs for any such consideration. —
“ Why can’t they let me alone?” was the ques-
tion which he asked himself perpetually, and it
seemed to him the most reasonable one in the
world, and that no satisfactory answer was pos-
sible to it, except that he ought to be, and
should be, let alone. And so at last he rode

along Englebourn street, convinced that what
he had to do before all other things just now
was to assert himself properly, and show every
one, even his own mother, that he was no long-
er a boy to be managed according to any one’s
fancies except his own.

He rode straight to the stables and loosed the
girths of his horse, and gave particular direc-
tions about grooming and feeding him, and
staid in the stall for some minutes rubbing his
ears and fondling him. The antagonism which
possessed him for the moment against mankind
perhaps made him appreciate the value of his
relations vidth a well-trained beast. Then he
went round to the house and inquired for his
uncle. He had not been in Englebourn for
some years, and the servant did not know him,
and answered that Mr. Winter was not out of
his room, and never saw strangers till the after-
noon. Where W'as Miss Winter, then? She
was down the village at Widow Winburn’s, and
he couldn’t tell when she wnuld be back, tlie
man said. The contents of Katie’s note of the
day before had gone out of his head, but the
mention of Betty’s name recalled them, and
with them something of the kindly feeling which
had stirred within him on hearing of her illness.
So, saying he would call later to see his uncle,
he started again to find the widow’s cottage and
his cousin.

The servant had directed him to the last
house in the village, but, when he got outside
of the gate, there were houses in two directions.
He looked about for some one from w-hom to
inquire fui-thcr, and his eye fell upon our old ac-
quaintance, the constable, coming out of his
door with a parcel under his arm.

The little man was in a brown study, and did
not notice Tom’s first address. He was, in
fact, anxiously thinking over his old friend’s ill-
ness and her son’s trouble ; and was on his way
to farmer Groves"’s (having luckily the excuse
of taking a coat to be tried on), in the hopes of
getting him to interfere and patch up the quar-
rel between young Tester and Harry.

Tom’s. first salute had been friendly enough ;
no one knew better how to speak to the poor,
amongst whom he had lived all his life, than he.
But not getting any answer, and being in a
touchy state of mind, he was put out, and shout-
ed—

“ Hallo, my man, can’t you hear me?”

“ Ees, Ibean’t dunchj” replied the constable,
turning and looking at his questioner.

“I thought you were, for I spoke loud enough
before. Which is Mrs. Winburn’s cottage ?”

‘ ‘ The furdest house down ther, ” he said, point-
ing, ‘ ‘ ’tis in my way, if you’ve a mind to come.”
Tom accepted the offer and walked along by the
constable.

“Mrs. Winburn is ill, isn’t she?” he asked,
after looking his guide over.

“Ees,' her be — terrible bad,” said the con-
stable.

“What is the matter with her, do you
know ?”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“Zummat o’ fits, I hears. Her’ve had ’em
this six year, on and ofi’.”

‘ ‘ I suppose it’s dangerous ? I mean she isn’t
likely to get well?”

“ ’Tis in the Lord’s hands,” replied the con-
stable, “ but her’s that bad wi’ pain, at times,
’twould be a mussy if ’twoud plaase He to tak’
her out on’t.”

“Perhaps she mightn’t think so,” said Tom,
superciliously ; he was not in the mind to agree
with any one. The constable looked at him
solemnly for a moment, and then said —

“ Her’s been a God-fearin’ woman from her
youth up, and her’s had a deal o’ trouble.
Thaay as the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and
’tisn’t such as thaay as is afcard to go afore
Him.”

“Well, I never found that having troubles
made people a bit more anxious to get ‘out
on’t,’ as you call it,” said Tom.

“It don’t seem to me as you can ’a had
much o’ trouble to judge by,” said the consta-
ble, who was beginning to be nettled by Tom’s
manner.

“ How can you tell that ?”

“Leastways ’twould be whoam-made, then,”
persisted the constable; “ and ther’s a sight
o’ odds atween whoam-made troubles and thaay
as the Lord sends.”

“So there may; but I may have seen both
sorts, for any thing you can tell.”

“Nay, nay; the Lord’s troubles leaves His
marks.”

“And you don’t see any of them in my face,
eh ?”

The constable jerked his head after, his own
peculiar fashion, but declined to reply directly
to this interrogatory. He parried it by one of
his own.

“In the doctorin’ line, make so bould?”
“No,” said Tom. “You don’t seem to have
such very good eyes, after all.”

“ Oh, I seed you wasn’t old enough to be do-
in’ for yourself, like ; but I thought you med ha’
been a ’sistant, or summat.”

“Well, then, you’re just mistaken,” said
Tom, considerably disgusted at being taken for
a country doctor’s assistant.

“I ax your pardon,” said the constable.
“ But if you beant in the doctorin’ line, what be
gwine to Widow Winburn’s for, make so bould ?”
“ That’s my look-out, I suppose,” said Tom,
almost angrily. “ That’s the house, isn’t it?”
and he pointed to the cottage, already de-
scribed, at the corner of Englebourn Copse.

“ Ees.”

“ Good-day, then.”

“ Good-day,” muttered the constable, not at
all satisfied with this abrupt close of the conver-
sation, but too unready to prolong it. He went
on his own way slowly, looking back often, till
he saw the door open ; after which he seemed
better satisfied, and ambled out of sight.

“The old snuffler!” thought Tom, as he
strode up to the cottage door — “a ranter. I’ll
be bound, v/ith his ‘Lord’s troubles,’ and

1 C3

‘Lord’s hands,’ and ‘Lord’s marks.’ I hojjc
Uncle Robert hasn’t many such in the parish.”
He knocked at the cottage door, and in a few
seconds it opened gently, and Katie slipped out
with her finger on her lips. She made a slight
gesture of surprise at seeing him, and held out
her hand.

“ Hush!” she said, “ she is asleep. You are
not in a hurry ?”

“No, not particularly,” he answered abrupt-
ly ; for there was something in her voice and
manner which jarred with his humor.

“Hush!” she said again, “you must not
speak so loud. We can sit down here and
talk quietl}'-. I shall hear if she moves.”

So he sat down opposite to her in the little
porch of the cottage. She left the door ajar,
so that she might catch the least movement of
her patient, and then turned to him with a
bright smile, and said,

“ Well, I am so glad to see you! What
good wind blows you here ?”

“ No particularly good wind, that I know of.
Mary showed me your letter yesterday, and
mother wished me to come round here on my
way home ; and so here I am.”

“ And how did the party go off ? I long to
hear about it.”

“ Very well ; half the county were there, and
it was all very well done.”

“And how did dear Mary look?”

“ Oh, just as usual. But now, Katie, why
didn’t you come ? Mary and all of us were so
disappointed.”

“I thought you read my letter?”

“Yes, so I did. ”

“Then you know the reason.’’

“I don’t call it a reason. Really, you have
no right to shut yourself up from every thing.
You will bo getting moped to death.”

“But do I look moped?” she said; and he
looked at her, and couldn’t help admitting to
himself, reluctantly, that she did not. So he
re-opened fire from another point.

“You will wear yourself out, nursing every
old woman in the parish.”

“But I don’t nurse every old woman.”

“ Why, there is no one here but you to-day,
now,” he said, with a motion of his head to-
wards the cottage.

“No, because I have let the regular nurse go
home for a few hours. Besides, this is a special
case. You don’t know what a dear old soul
Betty is.”

“ Yes, I do ; I remember her ever since 1
was a child.”

“Ah, I forgot; I have often heard her talk
of jmu. Then you ought not to be surprised at
any thing I may do for her.”

“ She is a good, kind old woman, I know.
But still I must say, Katie, you ought to think
of your friends and relations a little, and what
you owe to society.”

“Indeed, I do think of my friends and rela-
tions very much, and I should have liked, of all
things, to have been with you yesterday. Y'on

IG-i

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ought to be pitying me, instead of scolding
me.”

“ My dear Katie, you know I didn’t mean to
scold you ; and nobody admires the way you
give yourself up to visiting, and all that sort of
thing, more than I ; only you ought to have a
little pleasure .sometimes. People have a right
to think of themselves and their own happiness
a little.”

“Perhaps I don’t find visiting and all that
sort of thing so very miserable. But now, Tom,
you saw in my letter that poor Betty’s son has
got into trouble ?”

“Yes; and that is what brought on her at-
tack, you said.”

“ I believe so. She was in a sad state about
him all yesterday — so painfully eager and anx-
ious. She is better to-day ; but still I think it
would do her good if you would see her, and say
you will be a friend to her son. Would you
mind ?”

“ It was just what I wished to do yesterday.
I will do all I can for him. I’m sure. I always
liked him as a boy ; you can tell her that. But
I don’t feel, somehow — to-day, at least — as if I
could do any good by seeing her.”

“ Oh, why not ?”

“I don’t think I’m in the right humor. Is
she very ill ?”

“Yes, very ill indeed ; I don’t think she can
recover.”

“ Well, you see, Katie, I’m not used to death-
beds. I shouldn’t say the right sort of thing.”

‘ ‘ How do you mean — the right sort of
thing ?”

“Oh, you know. I couldn’t talk to her
about her soul. I’m not fit for it, and it isn’t
my place.”

“No indeed, it isn’t. But you can remind her
of old times, and say a kind word about her son.”

“ Very well, if you don’t think I shall do any
harm.”

“I’m sure it will comfort her. And now
tell me about yesterday.”

They sat talking for some time in the same
low tone, and Tom began to forget his causes of
quarrel with the world, and gave an account of
the archery party from his own point of view.
Katie saw, with a woman’s quickness, that he
avoided mentioning Mary, and smiled to her-
self, and drew her own conclusions.

At last there was a slight movement in the
cottage, and, laying her hand on his arm, she
got up quickly and went in. In a few minutes
she came to the door again.

“How is she?” asked Tom.

“Oh, much the same; but sho has waked
without pain, which is a great blessing. Now,
are you ready?”

“Yes; you must go with me.”

“Come in, then.” She turned, and he fol-
lowed into the cottage.

Betty’s bed had been moved into the kitch-
en, for the sake of light and air. He glanced
at the corner where it stood with almost a feel-
ing of awe, as he followed his cousin on tip-toe.

It was all he could do to recognize the pale,
drawn face which lay on the coarse pillow.
The rush of old memories which the sight call-
ed up, and the thought of the suffering of his
poor old friend, touched him deeply.

Katie went to the bedside, and, stooping
down, smoothed the pillow, and placed her hand
for a moment on the forehead of her patient.
Then she looked up and beckoned to him, and
said, in her low, clear voice,

“Betty, here is an old friend come to see
you ; my cousin, Squire Brown’s son. You re-
member him quite a little boy?”

The old woman moved her head towards the
voice and smiled, but gave no further sign of
recognition. Tom stole across the floor and sat
down by the bedside.

“ Oh yes, Betty,” he said, leaning towards
her and speaking softly, “ you must remember
me. Master Tom — who used to come to your
cottage on baking days for hot bread, you
know.”

“To be sure, I minds un, bless his little
heart !” said the old woman, faintly. “ Hev ho
come to see poor Betty? Do’ee let un com’, and
lift un up so as I med see un. My sight be get-
ting dim like.”

“Here he is, Betty,” said Tom, taking her
hand — a hard-working hand, lying there with
the skin all puckered from long and daily ac-
quaintance with the washing-tub — “I’m Master
Tom.”

“Ah, dearee me !” she said slowly, looking at
him with lustreless eyes. “ Well, you be grow-
ed into a flne young gentleman, surely. And
how’s the Squire and Madam Brown, and all
the fam’ly ?”

“Oh, very well, Betty ; they will be so sorry
to hear of your illness.”

“But there ain’t no hot bread for un. ’Tis
ill to bake wi’ no fuz bushes, and bakers’ stuf is
poor for hungry folk.”

“ I’m within three months as old as your Har-
ry, you know,” said Tom, trying to lead her
back to the object of his visit.

“Harry,” she repeated, and then collecting
herself went on, “our Harry — where is he?
They haven’t sent un to prison, and his mother
a dyin’ ?”

“ Oh no, Betty ; he will be here directly.
I came to ask whether there is any thing I can
do for you.”

“You’ll stand by un, poor buoy — our Harry,
as you used to play wi’ when you was little:
’twas they as aggravated un so as he couldn’t
abear it, afore ever he’d a struck a fly.”

‘ ‘ Yes, Betty : I will see that he has fair play.
Don’t trouble about that ; it will be all right.
You must be quite quiet, and not trouble your-
self about any thing, that you may get well and
about again.”

“Nay, nay. Master Tom. I be gwine whoam ;
ees, I be gwine whoam to my maester, Harry’s
father — I knows I be — and you’ll stand by un
when I be gone ; and Squire Brown’ll say a
good word for un to the justices?”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“Yes, Betty, that he will. But you must
cheer up, and you’ll get better yet ; don’t be
afraid.”

“ I beant afeard, Master Tom ; no, bless you,
I beant afeard but what the Lord’ll be mussiful
to a poor lone woman like me, as has had a sore
time of it since my measter died, wi’ a hungry
boy like our Harry to kep, back and belly ; and
the rheumatics terrible bad all winter time.”
“I’m sure, Betty, you have done your duty
by him, and every one else.”

“ Dwontee speak o’ doin’s. Master Tom. ’Tis
no doin’s o’ ourn as’ll make any odds where I
be gwine.”

Tom did not know what to ' answer ; so he
pressed her hand and said,

“Well, Betty, I am very glad I have seen
you once more : T shan’t forget it. Harry shan’t
want a friend while I li^e.”

“The Lord bless you. Master Tom, for that
word!” said the dying Avoman, returning the
pressure, as her eyes filled with tears. Katie,
who had been watching her carefully from the
other side of the bed,, made him a sign to go.

“Good-bye, Betty,” he said; “1 Avon’t for-
get, you may be sure; God bless you;” and
then, disengaging his hand gently, went out
again into the porch, Avhere he saL down to wait
for his cousin.

In a fcAV minutes the nurse returned, and Ka-
tie came out of the cottage soon afterAvards.

“ Noav I Avill Avalk up homo AA'ith you,” she
said. “You must come in and see papa.
Well, I’m sure you must be glad you went in.
Was not I right ?”

“ Yes, indeed ; I wish I could have said some-
thing more to comfprt her.”

“You couldn’t have said more. It was just
what she Avanted.”

“But Avhere is her son ? I ought to see him
before I go.”

“ He has gone to the doctor’s for some medi-
cine. He will be back soon.”

“ Well, I must see him ; and I should like to
do something fcr him at once. I’m not very
flush of money, but I must give you something
for him. You’ll take it; I shouldn’t like to
offer it to him.”

“I hardly think he Avants money; they are
well off now. He earns good wages, and Bet-
ty has done her Avashing up to this week.”

“ Yes, but he will be fined, I suppose, for this
assault ; and then, if she should die, there Avill
be the funeral expenses.”

“Very well; as you please,” she said; and
Tom proceeded to hand over to her all his ready
money, except a shilling or two. After satisfy-
ing liis mind thus, he looked at her, and said —
“Do you knoAV, Katie, I don’t think I ever
saAv you so happy and in such spirits?”’

“There now! And yet you began talking
to me as if I Avere looking sad enough to turn
all the beer in the parish sour.”

“ Well, so you ought to be, according to Cock-
er, spending all your time in sick-rooms.”
“According to Avho?”

IG,-

“ According to Cocker.”

Who is Cocker ?”

“ Oh, I don’t knoAv ; some old fellow Avho Avrotc
the rules of arithmetic, I believe ; it’s only a bit
of slang. But, I repeat, you have a right to be
sad, and it’s taking an unfair adA-antage of your
relations to look as pleasant as you do.”

Katie laughed. “You ought not to say so,
at any rate,” she said, ‘ ‘ for you look all the pleas-
anter for your visit to a sick-room.”

“Did I look very unpleasant before ?”
“Well, I don’t think you Avere in uatit good
humor.”

“ No, I AA'as in a A'ery bad humor, and talking
to you and poor old Betty has set me right, I
think. But you said hers Avas a special case.
It must be very sad Avork in general.”

“Only Avhen one sees people in great pain,
or Avhen they are Avicked, and quarrelling, or
complaining about nothing ; then I do get very
low sometimes. But even then it is much bet-
ter than keeping to one’s self. Any thing is
better than thinking of one’s self and one’s own
troubles.”

“ I dare say you are right,” said Tom, recall-
ing his morning’s meditations, “especially Avhen
one’s troubles are home-made. Look, here’s an
old fellow' who gave me a lecture on that subject
before I saAv you this morning, and took me for
the apothecary’s boy.”

They Avere almost opposite David’s door, at
which he stood with a piece of Avork in his hand.
He had seen Miss Winter from his look-out Avin-
doAv, and had descended from his board in hopes
of hearing neAvs.

Katie returned his respectful and anxi.ous sa-
lute, and said, “ She is no Avorse, David. We
left her quite out of pain and very quiet.”
“Ah, ’tis to be hoped as she’ll hev a peaceful
time on’t noAv, poor soul !” said David : “I’ve a
been to Farmer Groves’s, and I hopes as he’ll do
summat about Harry.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Miss Winters,
“and my cousin here, Avho knew Harry very
Avell Avhen they were little boys together, has
promised to help him. This is Harry’s best
ifriend,” she said to Tom, “ Avho has done more
than any one to keep him right.”

David seemed a little embarrassed, and began
jerking his head about Avhen his acquaintance of
the morning, whom he had scarcely noticed be-
fore, Avas introduced by Miss Winter as “my
cousin.”

“I Avish to do all I can for him,” said Tom,
“and I’m very glad to have made your acquaint-
ance. You must let me knoAv AvheneA'er I can
help and he took out a card and handed it to
David, Avho looked at it, and then said,

“ And I be to Avrite to you, sir, then, if Harry
gets into trouble ?”

“Yes ; but we must keep him out of trouble,
even home-made ones, Avhich don’t leave good
marks, you knoAv,” said Tom.

“ And thaay be nine out o’ ten o’ aal as comes
to a man, sir,” said David, “ as I’ve a told Harry
' scoi'es o’ times.”

166

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ That seems to be your text, David,” said
Tom, laughing.

“Ah, and ’tis a good un too, sir. Ax Miss
Winter else. 'Tis a sight better to hev the
Lord’s troubles, while you be about it, for thaay
as hasn’t makes wus for theirselves out o’ noth-
in’. Dwon’t ’em, miss?”

“Yes; you know that I agree with you, Da-
vid.”

“ Good-bye, then,” said Tom, holding out his
hand, “ and mind you let me hear from you.”

“ What a queer old bird, with his whole wis-
dom of man packed up small for ready use, like
a quack doctor,” he said, as soon as they were out
of hearing.

“Indeed, he isn’t the least like a quack doc-
tor. I don’t know a better man in the parish,
though he is rather obstinate, like all the rest of
them.”

“ I didn’t mean to say any thing against him,
I assure you,” said Tom; “on the contrary, I
think him a fine old fellow. But I didn’t think
so this morning, when he showed me the way to
Betty’s cottage.” The fact was, that Tom saw
all things and persons with quite a different pair
of eyes from those which he had been provided
■with when he arrived in Englebourn that morn-
ing. He even made allowances for old Mr. Win-
ter, who was in his usual querulous state at lunch-
eon, though perhaps it would have been difficult
in the whole neighborhood to find a more perti-
nent comment on, and illustration of, the consta-
ble’s text than the poor old man furnished, with
his complaints about his own health, and all he
had to do and think of, for every body about him.
It did strike Tom, however, as very wonderful
how such a character as Katie’s could have
grown up under the shade of, and in constant
contact with, such an one as her father’s. He
wished his uncle good-bye soon after luncheon,
and he and Katie started again down the vil-
lage— she to return to her nursing and he on his
^vay home. He led his horse by the bridle and
walked by her side dov.’n the street. She point-
ed to the Hawk’s Lynch as they walked along,
and said, “You should ride up there; it is
scarcely out of your way. Mary and I used to
walk there every day when she was here, and she
was so fond of it.”

At the cottage they found Harry Winburn.
He came out, and the two young men shook
hands, and looked one another over, and ex-
changed a few shy sentences. Tom managed
with difficulty to say the little he had to say,
but tried to make up for it by a hearty manner.
It was not the time or place for any unnecessa-
ry talk ; so in a few minutes he -was mounted
and riding up the slope towards the heath. “I
should say he must be half a stone lighter than
I,” he thought, “and not quite so tall; but he
looks as hard as iron and tough as whipcord.
What a No. 7 he’d make in a heavy crew !
Poor fellow, he seems dreadfully cut up. I
hope I shall be able to be* of use to him.
Now for this place which Katie showed me
from the village street.”

He pressed his horse up the steep side of the
Hawk’s Lynch. The exhilaration of the scram-
ble, and the sense of power, and of some slight
risk, which he felt as he helped on the gallant
beast with hand and knee and heel, while the
loose turf and stones flew from his hoofs and
rolled down the hill behind them, made Tom’s
eyes kindle and his pulse heat quicker as he
reached the top and pulled up under the Scotch
firs. “This was her favorite walk, then. No
wonder. What an air, and what a view !”
He jumped off his horse, slipped the bridle over
his arm, and let him pick away at the short grass
and tufts of heath, as he himself first stood, and
then sat, and looked out over the scene which
she had so often looked over. She might have
sat on the very spot he was sitting on ; she must
have taken in the same expanse of wood and
meadow, village and park, and dreamy, distant
hill. Her presence seemed to fill the air round
him. A rush of new thoughts and feelings
swam through his brain and carried him, a
willing piece of drift-man, along with them.
He gave himself up to the stream, and revelled
in them. His eye traced back the road along
which he had ridden in the morning, and rested
on the Barton woods, just visible in the distance,
on this side of the point where all outline except
that of the horizon began to be lost. The flick-
ering July air seemed to beat in a pulse of purple
glory over the spot. The soft wind which blew
straight from Barton seemed laden with her
name, and whispered it in the firs over his head.
Every nerve in his body was bounding with new
life, and he could sit still no longer. He rose,
sprang on his horse, and, with a shout of joy,
turned from the vale and rushed away on to the
heath, northward, towards his home behind the
chalk hills. He had ridden into Englebourn in
the morning an almost unconscious dabbler by
the margin of the great stream ; he rode from
the Hawk’s Lynch in the afternoon over head
and ears, and twenty, a hundred, aye, unnum-
bered fathoms below that, deep, consciously,
and triumphantly in love.

But at what a pace, and in what a form !
Love, at least in his first access, roust be as
blind a horseman as he is an archer. The
heath was rough with peat-cutting and turf-cut-
ting, and many a deep-rutted farm road,, and
tufts of heather and furze. Over them and
through them went horse and man — horse ris-
ing seven, and man twenty off, a well-matched
pair in age for a wild ride — headlong towards
the north, till a blind rut somewhat deeper than
usual put an end to their career, and sent the
good horse staggering forward some thirty feet
on to his nose and knees, and Tom over his
shoulder, on to his back in the heather.

“Well it’s lucky it’s no worse,” thought our
hero, as he picked himself up and anxiously ex-
amined the horse, who stood trembling and look-
ing wildly puzzled at the whole proceeding ; “I
hope he hasn’t overreached. What ■tvill the gov-
enor say? His knees are all right. Poor old
boy,” he said, patting him, “no wonder you look

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

1G7

astonished. You’re not in love. Come along ;
we won’t make fools of ourselves any more.
What is it ? —

‘A true love forsaken a new love may get,

But a neck that’s once broken can never be set.’

What stuff! one may get a neck set, for any
thing I know ; but a new love — blasphemy I”

The rest of the ride passed off soberly enough,
except in Tom’s brain, wherein were built up in
gorgeous succession castles such as — we have all
built, I suppose, before now. And with the cas-
tles were built up side by side good honest re-
solves to be worthy of her, and win her and
worship her with body, and mind, and soul.
And, as a first installment, away to the winds
went all the selfish morning thoughts ; and he
rode down the northern slope of the chalk hills
a dutiful and affectionate son, at peace with Mrs.
Porter, honoring her for her care of the treasure
which he was seeking, and in good time for din-
ner.

“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Brown to her hus-
band when they were alone that night, “did you
ever see Tom in such spirits, and so gentle and
affectionate ? Dear boy ! there can be nothing
the matter.”

“Didn’t I tell you so ?” replied Mr. Brown ;
“ you women have always got some nonsense in
your heads as soon as your boys have a hair on
their chin or your girls begin to put up their back
hair.”

“Well, John, say what you will, I’m sure
Mary Porter is a very sweet, taking girl, and — ”

“I am quite of the same opinion,” said Mr.
Brown, “-and am very glad you have written to
ask them here.”

And so the worthy couple went happily to
bed.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

BROWN PATRONUS.

On a Saturday afternoon in August, a few
weeks after his eventful ride, Tom returned to En-
glebourn Rectory, to stay over Sunday, and at-
tend Betty Winburn’s funeral. He was strange-
ly attracted to Harry by the remembrance of their
old boyish rivalry ; by the story Avhich he had
heard from his cousin of the unwavering perse-
verance with which the young peasant clung to
and pursued his suit for Simon’s daughter ; but,
more than all, by the feeling of gratitude with
which he remembered the effect his visit to Bet-
ty’s sick-room had had on him, on the day of
his ride from Barton Manor. On that day he
knew that he had ridden into Englebourn in
a miserable mental fog, and had ridden out of
it in sunshine, which had lasted through the in-
tervening weeks. Somehow' or another he had
been set straight then and there, turned into the
right road and out of the wrong one, at what he
very naturally believed to be the most critical
moment of his life.

Without stopping to weigh accurately the re-
spective merits of the several persons whom he

had come in contact with on that day, he credit-
ed them all with a large amount of gratitude and
good-will, and Harry with his mother’s share as
well as his own. So he had been longing to do
something for him ever since. The more he re-
joiced in and gave himself up to his owm new
sensations, the more did his gratitude become,
as it were, a burden to him ; and yet no oppor-
tunity-offered of letting off some of it in action.
The magistrates, taking into consideration the
dangerous state of his mother, had let Harry off
with a reprimand for his assault ; so there was
nothing to be done there. He Avrote to Katie
offering more money to the Winburns ; but slie
declined — adding, hoAvever, to her note, by Avay
of postscript, that he miglit give it to her cloth-
ing-club or coal-club. Then came the neAvs of
Betty’s death, and an intimation from Katie
that she thouglit Harry Avould be much grati-
fied if he Avould attend the funeral. He jump-
ed at the suggestion. All Englebourn, from
the Hawk’s Lynch to the Rectory, Avas halloAved
ground to him. The idea of getting back there,
so much nearer to Barton Manor, filled him Avith
joy Avhich he tried in A'ain to repress Avhen he
thought of the main object of his A'isit.

He arrived in time to go and shake hands
with Harry before dinner ; and, though scarcely
a Avord passed between them, he saAV with de-
light that he had CA'idently given pleasure to
the mourner. Then he had a charming long
evening with Katie, walking in the garden with
her between dinner and tea, and after tea dis-
coursing in low tones over her Avork-table, while
Mr. Winter benevolently slept in his arm-chair.
Their discourse branched into many paths, but
managed always somehow to end in the sayings,
beliefs, and perfections of the young lady of Bar-
ton Manor. Tom Avondered hoAV it had happen-
ed so, Avhen he had got to his OAvn room, as he
fancied he had not betrayed himself in the least.
He had determined to keep resolutely on his
guard, and to make a confidant of no living soul
till he was twenty-one, and, though sorely tempt-
ed to break his resolution in favor of Katie, had
restrained himself. He might have spared him-
self all the trouble ; but this he did not knoAA',
being unversed in the Avays of Avomen, and all
unaware of the subtlety and quickness of their
intuitions in all matters connected Avith the heart.
Poor, dear, stolid, dim-sighted mankind ! hoAV
they do see through ns and Avalk round us I

The funeral on the Sunday afternoon betAveen
churches had touched him much, being the first
he had ever attended. He AA'alked next behind
tlie chief mourner — the fcAv friends, amongst
whom David was conspicuous, yielding place to
him. He stood beside Harry in church and at
the open grave, and made the responses as firm-
ly as he could, and pressed his shoulder against
his, Avhen he felt the strong frame of the son
trembling with the Aveight and burden of his
resolutely suppressed agony. When they part-
ed at the cottage door, to which Tom accom-
panied the mourner and his old and tried friend
David, though nothing but a look and a grasp

IGS

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

of the hand passed between them, he felt that
they were bound by a new and invisible bond ;
and as he walked back up the village and pass-
ed the church-yard, where the children were
playing about on the graves — stopping every
now and then to watch the sexton as he stamp-
ed down and filled in the mould on the last-
made one, beside which he had himself stood as
a mourner — and heard the bells beginning to
chime for the afternoon service, he resolved
within himself that he would be a true and
helpful friend to the widow’s son. On this sub-
ject he could talk freely to Katie ; and he did
so that evening, expounding how much one in
his position could do for a young laboring man
if he really was bent upon it, and building up
grand castles for Harry, the foundations of
which rested on his own determination to bene-
fit and patronize him. Katie listened half
doubtingly at first, but was soon led away by
his confidence, and poured out the tea in the
full belief that, with Tom’s powerful aid, all
would go well. After which they took to read-
ing the “ Christian Year ” together, and branch-
ed into discussions on profane poetry, which Katie
considered scarcely proper for the evening, but
which, nevertheless, being of such rare occur-
rence with her, she had not the heart to
stop.

’'The next morning Tom was to return home.
After breakfast he began the subjeet of his plans
for Harry again, when Katie produced a small
paper packet, and handed it to him, saying —

“ Here is your money again.”

“ What money ?”

“The money you left with me for Harry
Winburn. I thought at the time that most
probably he would not take it.”

“But are jmu sure he doesn’t want it? Did
you try hard to get him to take it?” said Tom,
holding out his hand reluctantly for the money.

“Not myself. I couldn’t offer him money
myself, of course ; but I sent it by David, and
begged him to do all he could to persuade him
to take it.”

“Well, and why wouldn’t he?”

“ Oh, he said the club-money which was
coming in was more than enough to pay for the
funeral, and for himself he didn’t want it.”

“How provoking! I wonder if old David
really did his best to get him to take it.”

“ Yes, I am sure he did. But you ought to
be very glad to find some independence in a
poor man.”

“Bother his independence! I don’t like to
feel that it costs me nothing but talk — I want
to pay.”

“Ah, Tom, if you knew the poor as well as I
do, you wouldn’t say so. I am afraid there are
not two other men in the parish who would
have refused your money. The fear of under-
mining their independence takes away all my
pleasure in giving.”

“Undermining! Why, Katie, I am sure I
have heard you mourn over their stubbornness
and unreasonableness.”

“Oh yes; they are often provokingly stub-
born and unreasonable, and yet not independ-
ent about money, or any thing they can get out
of you. Besides, I acknowledge that I have be-
come wiser of late : I used to like to see them
dependent and cringing to me, but now I dread
it.”

“But you would like David to give in about
the singing, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, if he would give in I should be very
proud. I have learnt a great deal from him ;
I used positively to dislike him ; but, now that
I know him, I think him the best man in the
parish. If he ever does give in — and I think
he will — it will be worth any thing, just because
he is so independent.”

“ That’s all very well ; but what am I to do
to show Harry Winburn that I mean to be his
friend, if he won’t take money ?”

“You have come over to his mother’s funer-
al— he will think more of that than of all the
money you could give him ; and you can show
sympathy for him in a great many ways.”
“Well, I must try. By-the-way, about his
love affair ; is the young lady at home ? I
have never seen her, you know.”

“No, she is away with an aunt, looking out
for a place. I have persuaded her to get one,
and leave home again for the present. Her fa-
ther is quite well now, and she is not wanted.”
“Well, it seems I can’t do any good with
her, then ; but could not I go and talk to her
father about Harry? I might help him in that
way.”

“You must be very careful; Simon is such
an odd-tempered old man.”

“ Oh, I’m not afraid; he and I are great
chums, and a little soft soap will go a long way
with him. Fancy, if I could get him this very
morning to ‘ sanction Harry’s suit,’ as the phrase
is, what should you think of me ?”

“ I should think very highly of your powers
of persuasion.”

Not the least daunted by his cousin’s misgiv-
ings, Tom started in quest of Simon, and found
him at work in front of the greenhouse, sur-
rounded by many small pots and heaps of finely
sifted mould, and absorbed in his occupation.

Simon was a rough, stolid Berkshire rustic,
somewhat of a tyrant in the bosom of his fami-
ly, an unmanageable servant, a cross-grained
acquaintance ; as a citizen, stiff-necked and a
grumbler, who thought that nothing ever went
right in the parish ; but, withal, a thorough
honest worker; and, when allowed to go his
own way — and no other way would he go, as
his mistress had long since discovered — there
was no man who earned his daily bread more
honestly. He took a pride in his work, and
the Rectory garden was .always trim and well
kept, and the beds bright with flowers from early
spring till late autumn.

He was absorbed in what he was about, and
Tom came up close to him without attracting
the least sign of recognition ; so he stopped, and
opened the conversation.

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

1G9

“Good-day, Simon; it’s a pleasure to see a
garden looking so gay as yours.”

Simon looked up from his work, and, when
he saw who it was, touched his battered old liat,
and answered,

“ Hornin’, sir! Ees, you finds me alias in
blame.”

“ Indeed I do, Simon ; bat how do yoa man-
age it? I should like to tell my father’s gar-
dener.”

“ ’Tis no use to tell un if a hcvn’t found out
for hisself. ’Tis nothing but lookin’ a bit for-
rard and farm-yard stuff as does it.”

“Well, there’s plenty of farm-yard stuff at
home, and yet, somehow, we never look half so
bright as you do.”

“ May be as your gardener just takes and hits
it auver the top o’ the ground, and lets it lie.
That’s no kind o’ good, that beant — ’tis the roots
as wants the stuff ; and you med jist as well take
and put a round o’ beef agin my back-bwone, as
hit the stuff auver the ground, and never see as
it gets to the roots o’ the plants.”

“No, I don’t think it can be that,” said Tom,
laughing; “our gardener seems always to be
digging his manure in, but somehow he can’t
make it come out in flowers as you do.”

“ Ther’ be mwore waays o’ killin’ a cat besides
choking on un wi’ crarae,” said Simon, chuck-
ling in his turn.

“ That’s true, Simon,” said Tom ; “ the fact

is, a gardener must know his business as well
as you, to be always in bloom, eh ?”

“That’s about it, sir,” said Simon, on whom
the flattery was beginning to tell.

Tom saw this, and thought he might now feel
his way a little farther with the old man.

“I’m over on a sad errand,” he said ; “I’ve
been to poor Widow Winburn’s funeral — she
was an old friend of yours, I think ?”

“ Ees ; I minds her long afore she wur mar-
ried,” said Simon, turning to his pots again.

“ She wasn’t an old woman, after all,” said
Tom.

“ Sixty-two year old cum Michaelmas,” said
Simon.

“Well, she ought to have been a strong wom-
an for another fen years at least ; why, you must
be older than she by some years, Simon, and
you can do a good day’s work yet with any
man.”

Simon went on with his potting without re-
plying except by a carefully measured grunt,
sufficient to show that he had heard the remark,
and was not much impressed by it.

Tom saw that he must change his attack ; so,
after watching Simon for a minute, he began
again.

“I wonder why it is that the men of your
time of life are so much stronger than the
3mung ones in constitution. Now, I don’t be-
lieve there are three young men in Englebourn
who would have got over that fall you had at
Farmer Groves’s so quick as you have; most
young men would have been crippled for life by

it. ”

“ Zo ’em would, the young wosbirds ! I
dwon’t make no account on ’em,” said Simon.

“And you don’t feel any the worse for it,
Simon ?”

“ Narra mossel,” replied Simon ; but present-
ly he seemed to recollect something, and added,
“I wun’t saay but what I feels it at times when
I’ve got to stoop about much.”

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, Simon. Then
you oughtn’t to have so much stoojjing to do ;
potting, and that sort of thing, is the work for
you, I should think, and just giving an eye to
every thing about the place. Any body could
do the digging and setting out cabbages, and
your time is only wasted at it.” — Tom had now
found the old man’s weak point.

“Ees, sir, and so I tells miss,” he said, “but
wi’ nothin’ but a bit o’ glass no bigger’n a cow-
cumber-frame, ’tis all as a man can do to keep
a few plants alive droo’ the winter.”

“ Of course,” said Tom, looking round at the
very respectable greenhouse which Simon had
contemptuously likened to a cucumber-frame,
“you ought to have at least another house as
big as this for forcing.”

“Master ain’t pleased, he ain’t,” said Simon,
“if he dwon’t get his things, his spring wege-
batles, and his strawberries, as early as though
we’d a got a forcin’ pits and glass like other folk.
’Tis a year and mwore since he promised as I
sh’d hev glass along that ther’ wall, but ’tis no
nigher cornin’, as I can see. I be to spake to
miss about it now, he saj's, and, when I spakes
to her, ’tis, ‘ 0, Simon, we must wait till the
’spensary’s ’stablished,’ or ‘O, Simon, last win-
ter wur a werry tryin’ wun, and the sick-club’s
terrible bad off for funds,’ — and so we gwoes on,
and med gwo on, for aught as I can see, so long
as there’s a body sick or bad off in all the parish.
And that’ll be alius. For, what wi’ miss’s wisit-
in’ on ’em, and sendin’ on ’em dinners, and a’al
the doctor’s stuff as is served out o’ the ’spensary
— wy, ’tis enough to keep ’em bad a’al theiTives.
Ther ain’t no credit in gettin’ well. Ther wur no
sich a caddie about sick folk when I wur a bwoy.”
Simon had never been known to make such a
long speech before, and Tom argued well for his
negotiation.

“Well, Simon,” he said, “I’ve been talking
to my cousin, and I think she will do what you
want now. The dispensary is set up, and the
people are very healthy. How much glass
should you want, now, along that wall?”

“ A matter o’ twenty fit or so,” said Simon.
“I think that can be managed,” said Tom;
“I’ll speak to my cousin about it; and then
you would have plenty to do in the houses, and
you’d want a regular man under you.”

“Ees; ’twould take two on us reg’lar to kep
things as should be.”

“And you ought to have somebody who knows
what he is about. Can you think of any one who
would do, Simon ?”

“Ther’s a young chap as works for Squire
Wurley. I’ve heard as he wants to better his-
self.”

170

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“But he isn’t an Englebourn man. Isn’t
there any one in the parish ?”

“Ne’er a one as I knows on.”

“What do you think of Harry Winburn —
he seems a good hand with flowers?” The
words had scarcely passed his lij^s when Tom
saw that he had made a mistake. Old Simon
retired into himself at once, and a cunning dis-
trustful look came over his face. There was no
doing any thing with him. Even the new forc-
ing-house had lost its attractions for him, and
Tom, after some further ineffectual attempts to
bring him round, returned to the house some-
what crestfallen.

“Well, how have you succeeded?” said Katie,
looking up from her work, as he came in and sat
down near her table. Tom shook his head.

“I’m afraid I’ve made a regular hash of it,”
he said. “I thought at first I had quite come
round the old savage by praising tlie garden,
and prqmising that you would let him have a
new house.”

“You don’t mean to say you did that?” said
Katie, stopping her work.

“Indeed, but I did,- though. I was drawn
on, you know. I saw it was the right card to
play; so I couldn’t help it.”

“Oh, Tom' how could you do so? We
don’t want another house the least in the world;
it is only Simon’s vanity. He wants to beat the
gardener at the Grange at the flower-shows.
Every penny will have to come out of what
papa allows me for the parish.”

“Don’t be afraid, Katie; you won’t have to
spend a penny. Of course I reserved a condi-
tion. The new house was to be put up if he
would take Harry as under-gardener.”

“ What did he say to that ?”

“Well, he said nothing. I never came
across such an old Turk. How you have spoiled
him ! If he isn’t pleased, he won’t take the
trouble to answer you a word. I was very near
telling him a piece of my mind. But he looked
ail the more. I believe he would poison Har-
ry if he came here. What can have made him
hate him so?”

‘ ‘ He is jealous of him. Mary and I were so
foolish as to praise poor Betty’s flowers before
Simon, and he has never forgiven it. I think,
too, that he suspects, somehow, that we talked
about getting Harry here. I ought to have told
you, but I quite forgot it.”

“ Well, it can’t be helped. I don’t think I
can do any good in that quarter ; so now I shall
be off to the G range to see what I can do there,”
“ How do you mean ?”

“ Why, Harry is afraid of being turned out
of his cottage. I saw how it worried him,
thinking about it ; so I shall go to the Grange
and say a good word for him. Wurley can’t
refuse if I offer to pay the rent myself- — it’s only
six pounds a year. Of course I sha’nT tell
Harry ; and he will pay it all the same ; but
it may. make all the difference with Wurley,
who is a regular screw.”

“ Do you know Mr. Wurley ?”

“ Yes, just to speak to. He knows all about
me, and he will be very glad to be civil.”

“ No doubt he will ; but I don’t like your go-
ing to his house. You don’t know what a bad
man he is. Nobody but men on the turf, and
that sort of people, go there now ; and I believe
he thinks of nothing but gambling and game-
preserving.”

“ Oh yes ; I know all about him. The
county people are beginning to look shy at him ;
so he’ll be all the more likely to do what I ask
him.”

“ But you won’t get intimate with him ?”
“You needn’t be afraid of that.”

“It is a sad house to go to — I hope it won’t
do you any harm.”

“Ah, Katie!” said Tom, with a smile not
altogether cheerful, “I don’t think you need
be anxious about that. When one has been a
year at Oxford, there isn’t much snow left to
soil ; so now I am off. I must give myself
plenty of time to cook Wurley.”

“ Well, I suppose I must not hinder j"ou,”
said Katie. “I do hope you will succeed in
some of your kind plans for Harry.”

“ I shall do my best; and it is a great thing
to have somebody besides one’s self to think
about and try to help — some poor person — don’t
you think so, even for a man ?”

“ Of course I do. I am sure you can’t be
happy without it, any more than I. We
shouldn’t be our motliers’ children if we could
be.”

“ Well, good-bye, dear ; you can’t think how
I enjoy these glimpses of you and your work.
You must give my love to Uncle Robert.”

And so they bade one another adieu, loving-
ly, after the manner of cousins, and Tom rode
away with a very soft place in his heart for his
Cousin Katie. It was not the least the same
sort of passionate feeling of worship with which
he regarded Mary. The two feelings could lie
side by side in his heart with plenty of room to
spare. In fact, his heart had been getting so
big in the last few weeks, that it seemed cajoable
of taking in the whole of mankind, not to men-
tion woman. Still, on the whole, it may be
safely asserted that had matters been in at all a
more forward state, and could she have seen
exactly what was passing in his mind, Mary
would probably have objected to the kind of af-
fection which he felt for his cousin at this par-
ticular time. The joke about cousinly lovo is
probably as old, and certainly as true, as Solo-
mon’s pVoverbs. However, as matters stood, it
could be no concern of Mary’s what his feelings
were towards Katie or any other person.

Tom rode in at the lodge gate of the Grange
soon after eleven o’clock, and walked his horse
slowly through the park, admiring the splendid
timber, and thinking how he should break his
request to the owner of the place. But his
thoughts were interrupted by the proceedings of
the rabbits, which were out by hundreds all
along the sides of the plantations, and round the
great trees. A few of the nearest just deigned

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

to notice him by scampering to their holes un-
der the roots of the hntlered oaks, into which
some of them popped with a disdainful kick of
their hind legs, while others turned round, sat
up, and looked at him. As he neared the house,
he passed a keeper’s cottage, and was saluted by
the barking of dogs from the neighboring ken-
nel ; and the young pheasants ran about round
some twenty hen-coops, which were arranged
along opposite the door where the keeper’s chil-
dren were playing. The pleasure of watching
the beasts and birds kept him from arranging
his thoughts, and he reached the hall-door
without having formed the plan of his cam-
paign.

A footman answered the bell, who doubted
whether his master was down, but thought he
would see the gentleman if he would send in his
name. Whereupon Tom handed in his card ;
and, in a few minutes, a rakish-looking stable-
boy came round for his horse, and the butler ap-
peared, with his master’s compliments, and a
request that he would step into the breakfast-
room. Tom followed this portly personage
through the large handsome hall, on the walls
of which hung a buff-coat or two, and some old-
fashioned arms, and large paintings of dead
game and fruit — through a drawing-room, the
furniture of which was all covered up in melan-
choly cases — into the breakfast parlor, where
the owner of the mansion was seated at table in
a lounging-jacket. He was a man of forty, or
thereabouts, who would have been handsome,
but ' for the animal look about his face. His
cheeks were beginning to fall into chaps, his full
lips had a liquorish look about them, and bags
were beginning to form under his light blue
eyes. His hands were very white and delicate,
and shook a little as he poured out his tea ; and
he was full and stout in body, with small shoul-
ders, and thin arms and legs ; in short, the last
man whom Tom would have chosen as bow in
a pair oar. The only part of him which showed
strength were his dark whiskers, which were
abundant, and elaborately oiled and curled.
The room was light and pleasant, with two win-
dows looking over the park, and furnished lux-
uriously, in the most modern style, with all
manner of easy chairs and sofas. A glazed
case or two of well-bound books showed that
some former owner had cared for such things ;
but the doors had, probably, never been opened
in the present reign. The master, and his
usual visitors, found sufficient food for the
mind in the “ Racing Calendar,” “Boxiana,”
“The Adventures of Corinthian Tom,” and
“ Bell’s Life,” which lay on a side table ; or in
the pictures and prints of racers, opera-dancers,
and steeple-chases, which hung in profusion on
the walls. The breakfast-table was beautifully •
appointed, in the matter of china and plate ;
and delicate little rolls, neat pats of butter in
ice, and two silver hot dishes containing curry
and broiled salmon, and a plate of fruit, piled
in tempting profusion, appealed, apparently in
vain, to the appetite of the lord of the feast.

171

“ Mr. Brown, sir,” said the butler, ushering
in our hero to his master’s presence.

“ Ah, Brown, I’m very glad to see you here,”
said Mr. Wurley, standing up and holding out
his hand. “ Have any breakfast ?”

“ Thank you, no, I have breakfasted,” said
Tom, somewhat astonished at the intimacy of
the greeting ; but it was his cue to do the
friendly thing — so he shook the proffered hand,
which felt very limp, and sat down by the ta-
ble, looking pleasant.

“Ridden from home this morning?” said
Mr. Wurley, picking over daintily some of the
curry to which he had helped himself.

“ No, I was at my uncle’s, at Englebourn,
last night. It is very little out of the way ; so
I thought I would just call on my road home.”

“ Quite right. I’m very glad you came
without ceremony. People about here are so
d — d full of ceremony. It don’t suit me ; all
that humbug. But I wish you’d just pick a
bit.”

“ Thank you. Then I will eat some fruit,”
said Tom, helping himself to some of the fresh-
ly picked grapes ; “how very fine these are !”

“Yes, I’m open to back my houses against
the field for twenty miles round. This curry
isn’t fit for a pig — take it out, and tell the cook
so.” The butler solemnly obeyed, while his
master went on with one of the frequent oaths
with which he garnished his conversation.
“You’re right, they can’t spoil the fruit.
They’re a set of skulking devils, are servants.
They think of nothing but stuffing themselves,
and how they can cheat you most, and do the
least wmrk.” Saying which, he helped himself
to some fruit ; and the two ate their grapes for
a short time in silence. But even fruit seemed
to pall quickly on him, and he pushed away his
plate. The butler came back with a silver tray,
with soda water, and a small decanter of brandy,
and long glasses on it.

“ Won’t you have something after your ride ?”
said the host to Tom ; “ some soda-water with
a dash of bingo clears one’s head in the morn-
ing.”

“No, thank you,” said Tom, smiling, “it’s
bad for ti-aining.”

“Ah, you Oxford men are all for training,”
said his host, drinking greedily of the foaming
mixture which the butler handed to him. “A
glass of bitter ale is what you take, eh ? I know.
Get some ale for Mr. Brown.”

Tom felt that it would be uncivil to refuse
this orthodox offer, and took his beer according-
ly, after which his host produced a box of Hud-
son’s regalias, and proposed to look at the sta-
bles ; so they lighted their cigars and went out.
Mr. Wurley had taken of late to the turf, and
they inspected several young horses which were
entered for country stakes. Tom thought them
weedy-looking animals, but patiently listened to
their praises and pedigrees, upon which his host
was eloquent enough ; and, rubbing up his
latest readings in “ Bell’s Life,” and the racing
talk which he had been in the habit of hearing

172

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED.

in Drysdale’s rooms, managed to hold his own,
and asked, with a grave face, about the price of
the Coronation colt for the next Derby, and
whether Scott’s lot was not the right thing to
stand on for the St. Leger, thereby raising him-
self considerably in his host’s eyes. There were
no hunters in the stable, at which Tom express-
ed his surprise. In reply, Mr. Wurley abused
the country, and declared that it was not worth
riding across — the fact being that he had lost
his nerve, and that the reception which he was
beginning to meet with in the field, if he came
out by chance, was of the coldest.

From the stables they strolled to the keeper’s
cottage, where Mr. Wurley called for some
buckwheat and Indian corn, and began feeding
the young pheasants, which were running about,
almost like barn-door fowls, close to them.

“We’ve had a good season for the young
birds,” he said; “my fellow knows that part
of his business, d — n him, and don’t lose many.
You had better bring your gun over in October ;
we shall have a week in the covers early in the
month.”

“Thank you, I shall be very glad,” said
Tom ; “ but you don’t shoot these birds?”.

“ Shoot ’em ! what the devil should I do with
’em ?”

“ Why, they’re so tame I thought you just
kept them about the house for breeding. I
don’t care so much for pheasant shooting ; I
like a good walk after a snipe, or creeping along
to get a wild duck, much better. There’s some
sport in it, or even in partridge shooting with a
couple of good dogs, now — ”

“ You’re quite wrong. There’s nothing like
a good dry ride in a cover with lots of game,
and a fellow behind to load for you.”

“ Well, I must say I prefer the open.”
“You’ve no covers over your way, have
you?”

“Not many.”

“I thought so. You wait till you’ve had a
good day in my covers, and you won’t care for
quartering all day over wet turnips. Besides,
this sort of thing pays. They talk about pheas-
ants costing a guinea a head on one’s table.
It’s all stuff; at any rate, mine don’t cost me
much. In fact, I say it pays, and I can prove
it.”

“ But you feed your pheasants ?”

“Yes, just round the house for a few weeks,
and I sow a little buckwheat in the covers.
But they have to keep themselves pretty much,
I can tell you.”

“Don’t the farmers object?”

“Yes, d — n them ! they’re never satisfied.
But they don’t grumble to me ; they know bet-
ter. There are a dozen fellows ready to take
any farm that’s given up, and they know it.
Just get a beggar to put a hundred or two into
the ground, and he won’t quit hold in a hurry.
Will you play a game at billiards?”

The turn which their conversation had taken
hitherto had offered no opening to Tom for in-
troducing ihe object of his visit, and he felt less

and less inclined to come to the point. He
looked his host over and over again, and the
more he looked, the less he fancied asking any
thing like a favor of him. However, as it had
to be done, he thought he couldn’t do better
than fall into his ways for a few hours, and
watch for a chance. The man seemed good-na-
tured, in his way ; and all his belongings — the
fine park and house, and gardens and stables —
were not without their effect on his young guest.
It is not given to many men of twice his age to
separate a man from his possessions, and look
at him apart from them. So he yielded easily
enough, and they went to billiards in a fine
room opening out of the hall ; and Tom, who
was very fond of the game, soon forgot every
thing in the pleasure of playing on such a ta-
ble.

It was not a bad match, Mr. AVurley under-
stood the game far better than his guest, and
could give him advice as to what side to put on
and how to play for cannons. This he did in
a patronizing way, but his hand was unsteady
and his nerve bad. Tom’s good eye and steady
hand, and the practice he had had at the St.
Ambrose pool-table, gave him considerable ad-
vantage in the hazards. And so they played on,
Mr. Wurley condescending to bet only half a
crown a game, at first giving ten points, and
then five, at which latter odds Tom managed to
be two games ahead when the butler announced
lunch, at two o’clock.

“I think I must order my horse,” said Tom,
putting on his coat.

“No, curse it ! you must give me my revenge.
I’m always five points better after lunch, and
after dinner I could give you fifteen points.
Why shouldn’t you stop and dine and sleep?
I expect some men to dinner.”

“Thank you, I must get home to-day.”

“I should like you to taste iny mutton ; I
never kill it under five years old. You don’t
get that every day.”

Tom, however, was proof against the mutton ;
but consented to stay till towards the hour when
the other guests were expected, finding that his
host had a decided objection to be left alone.
So after lunch, at which Mr. Wurley drank the
better part of a bottle of old sherry to steady
his nerves, they returned again to billiards and
Hudson’s regalias.

They played on for another hour; and,
though Mr. Wurley’s hand was certainly stead-
ier, the luck remained with Tom. He was
now getting rather tired of playing, and wanted
to be leaving, and he began to remember the
object of his visit again. But Mr. AVurley was
nettled at being beaten by a boy, as he count-
ed his opponent, and wouldn’t hear of leaving
off. So Tom played on carelessly game after
game, and was soon again only two games
ahead. Mr. AVurley’s temper w'as recovering,
and now Tom protested that he must go.
Just one game more, his host urged, and Tom
consented. AVouldn’t he play for a sovereign ?
No. So they played double or quits ; and af-

TOM BROWN AT OXI'ORD.

173

ter a sharp struggle Mr. Wurleywon the game,
at which he was highly elated, and talked again
grandly of the odds he could give after dinner.

Tom felt that it was now or never, and so,
as he put on his coat, he said,

“ Well, I’m much obliged to you for a very
pleasant day, Mr. Wurley.”

“ I hope you’ll come over again, and stay
and sleep. I shall always be glad to see you.
It is so cursed hard to keep somebody always
going in the country.”

“ Thank you ; I should like to come again.
But now I want to ask a favor of you before I
go.”

“Eh, well, Avhat is it?” said Mr. Wurley,
whose face and manner became suddenly any
thing but encouraging.

“There’s that cottage of yours, the one at
the corner of Englebourn copse, next the vil-
lage.”

“The woodman’s house, I know,” said Mr.
Wul•le3^

“ The tenant is dead, and I want you to let
it to a friend of mine ; I’ll take care the rent is
paid.”

Mr. Wurley pricked up his ears at this an-
nouncement. He gave a sharp look at Tom;
and then bent over the table, made a stroke,
and said, “Ah, I heard the old woman was
dead. Who’s your friend, then ?”

“Well, I mean her son,” said Tom, a little
embarrassed ; “ he’s an active young fellow, and
will make a good tenant. I’m sure.”

“I dare say,” said Mr. Wurley, with a leer ;
“and I suppose there’s a sister to keep house
for him, eh ?”

“No, but he wants to get married.”

“Wants to get married, eh?” said Mr.
Wurley, with another leer and oath. “ You’re
right ; that’s a deal safer kind of thing for you.”
“Yes,” said Tom, resolutely disregarding
the insinuation which he could not help feel-
ing was intended; “it will keep him steady,
and if he can get the cottage it might make all
the difference. There wouldn’t be much trouble
about the marriage then, I dare say.”

“You’ll find it a devilish long way. You’re
quite right, mind you, not to get them settled
close at home ; but Englebourn is too far, I
should say.” ,

“What does it matter to me ?”

“Oh, you’re tired of her ! I see. Perhaps
it won’t be too far, then.”

“ Tired of her ! who do you mean ?”

“Ha! ha!” said, Mr. Wurley, looking up
from the table over which he was leaning, for
he went on knocking the balls about ; “ devil-
ish well acted ! But you needn’t try to come
the old soldier over me. I’m not quite such
a fool as that.”

“I don’t know what j'ou mean by coming
the old soldier. I only asked you to let the
cottage, and I will be responsible for the rent.
I’ll pay in advance, if you like.”

“Yes, you want me to let the cottage for you
to put in this girl.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Tom, interrupting
him, and scarcely able to keep bis temper; “I
told you it was for this young Winburn.”

“ Of course you told me so. Ha ! ha!”
“And you don’t believe me.”

“Come, now, all’s fair in love and war.
But, I tell you, you needn’t be mealy-mouthed
with me. You don’t mind his living there ;
he’s away at work all day, eh ? and his wife
stays at home.”

“ Mr. Wurley, I give you my honor I never
saw the girl in my life that I know of, and I
don’t know tliat she will marry him.”

“What did you talk about your friend for,
then?” said Mr. Wurley, stopping and staring
at Tom, curiosity beginning to mingle with his
look of cunning unbelief.

“Because I meant just what I said.”

“And the friend, then ?”

“I have told you several times that this
young Winburn is the man.”

“ What ! your friend ?"

“Yes, my friend,” said Tom; and he felt
himself getting red at having to call Harry his
friend in such company. Mr. Wurley looked
at him for a few moments, and then took his
leg off the billiard-table, and came round to
Tom with the sort of patronizing air with which
he had lectured him on billiards.

“I say. Brown, I’ll give you a piece of ad-
vice,” he said. “You’re a young fellow, and
haven’t seen any thing of the world. Oxford’s
all very well, but it isn’t the world. Now I
tell you, a young fellow can’t do himself great-
er harm than getting into low company and
talking as yon have been talking. It might
ruin you in the county. That sort of radical
stuff won’t do, you know — calling a farm laborer
your friend.”

Tom chafed at this advice from a man who,
he well knew, was notoriously in the habit of
entertaining at his house, and living familiarly
with, betting-men and trainers, and all the riff-
raff of the turf. But he restrained himself by
a considerable effort, and, instead of retorting,
as he felt inclined to do, said, with an attempt
to laugh it off, “Thank you, I don’t think
there’s much fear of my turning radical. But
will you let me the cottage ?”

“My agent manages all that. We talked
about pulling it down. The cottage is in my
preserves, and I don’t mean to have some poach-
ing fellow there to be sneaking out at night af-
ter my pheasants.”

‘ ‘ But his grandfather and great-grandfather
lived there.”

“I dare say, but it’s my cottage.”

“ But surely that gives him a claim to it.”
“D — n it ! it’s my cottage. You’re not go-
ing to tell me I mayn’t do what I like with it,
I suppose.”

“I only said that his family having lived
there so long gives him a claim.”

“A claim to what? These are some more
of your cursed radical notions. I think they
might teach you something better at Oxford.”

174

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

Tom was now perfectly cool, but withal in |
such a tremendous fury of excitement that he
forgot the interests of his client altogether.

“ I came here, sir,” he said, very quietly and
slowly, “ not to request your advice on my own
account, or your opinion on the studies of Ox-
ford, valuable as no doubt they are; I came to
ask you to let this cottage to me, and I wish to
have your answer.”

“ I’ll be d — d if I do ; there’s my answer.”
“Very well,” said Tom ; “ tlien I have only
to wish you good-morning. I am sorry to have
wasted a day in the company of a man who sets
up for a country gentleman with the tongue of
a Thames bargee and the heart of a Jew pawn-
broker.”

Mr. Wurley rushed to the bell and rang it

furiously. “By !” he almost screamed,

shaking his fist at Tom, “I’ll have you horse-
whipped out of ray house !” and then poured forth
a flood of uncomplimentary slang, ending in an-
other pull at the bell, and ‘ ‘ By ! I’ll have

you horsewhipped out of my house!”

“You had better try it on — you and your
flunkeys together,” said Tom, taking a cigar-
case out of his pocket and lighting up — the most
defiant and exasperating action he could think
of on the spur of the moment. “ Here’s one
of them ; so I’ll leave you to give him his or-
ders, and wait for five minutes in the hall,
where there’s more room.” And so, leaving
the footman gaping at his lord, he turned on
his heel, with the air of Bernardo del Carpio af-
ter he had bearded King Alphonso, and walked
into the hall.

He heard men running to and fro, and doors
banging, as he stood there looking at the old
buff-coats, and rather thirsting for a fight.
Presently a door opened, and the portly butler
shuffled in, looking considerably embarrassed,
and said, /

“ Please, sir, to go out quiet, else he’ll be
having one of his fits.”

“Your master, you mean.”

“Yes, sir,” said the butler, nodding, “D. T.,
sir. After one of his rages the black dog comes,
and it’s hawful work ; so I hope you will go,
sir.”

“Very well, of course I’ll go. I don’t want
to give him a fit.” Saying which, Tom walked
out of the hall-door, and leisurely round to the
stables, where he found already signs of commo-
tion. Without regarding them, he got his horse
saddled and bridled, and after looking him over
carefully, and patting him, and feeling his girths
in the yard, in the presence of a cluster of re-
tainers of one sort or another, who were gather-
ed from the house and offices, and looking sorely
puzzled whether to commence hostilities or not,
mounted and walked quietly out.

After his anger had been a little cooled by
the fresh air of the wild country at the back of the
Hawk’s Lynch, which he struck into on his way
home soon after leaving the park, it suddenly
occurred to him that, however satisfactory to
himself the results of his encounter with this

unjust landlord might seem, they would proba-
bly prove any thing but agreeable to the would-
be tenant, Harry Winburn. In fact, as he medi-
tated on the matter, it became clear to him
that in the course of one morning he had proba-
bly exasperated old Simon against his aspirant
son-in-law, and put a serious spoke in Harry’s
love-wheel, on the one hand, while, on the oth-
er, he had insured his speedy expulsion from his
cottage, if not the demolition of that building.
Whereupon he became somewhat low under
the conviction that his friendship, which was to
work such wonders for the said Harry, and de-
liver him out of all his troubles, had as yet only
made his whole look-out in the world very
much darker and more dusty. In short, as yet
he had managed to do considerably less than
nothing for his friend, and he felt very small
before he got home that evening. He was far,
however, from being prepared for the serious
way in which his father looked upon his day’s
proceedings. Mr. Brown was sitting by him-
self after dinner when his son turned up, and
had to drink several extra glasses of port to
keep himself decently composed, while Tom
narrated the events of the day in the intervals
of his attacks on the dinner, which was brought
back for him. When the servant had cleared
away, Mr. Brown proceeded to comment on the
history in a most clecided manner.

Tom was wrong to go to the Grange, in the
first instance ; and this part of the homily was
amplified by a discourse on the corruption of
the turf in general, and the special curse of
small country races in particular, which such
men as Wurley supported, and which, but for
them, would cease. Racing, which used to be
the pastime of great people, wdro could well af-
ford to spend a few thousands a year on their
pleasure, had now mostly fallen into the hands
of the very worst and lowest men of all classes,
most of whom Avould not scruple — as Mr. Brown
strongly put it — to steal a copper out of a blind
beggar’s hat. If he must go, at any rate he
might have done his errand and come awa}'-,
instead of staying there all day accepting the
man’s hospitality. Mr. Brown himself really
should be much embarrassed to know what to
to do if the man should happen to attend the
next sessions or assizes.

But, above all, having accepted his hospitali-
ty, to turn round at the end and insult the man
in his own house ! This seemed to Brown, J. P.,
a monstrous and astounding performance.

This new way of putting: matters took Tom
entirely by surprise. He attempted a defense,
but in vain. His father admitted that it would
be a hard case if Harry were turned out of his
cottage, but wholly reffised to listen to Tom’s
endeavors to prove that a tenant in such a case
had any claim or right as against his landlord.
A weekly tenant was a weekly tenant, and no
succession of weeks’ holding could make him
any thing more. Tom found himself rushing
into a line of argument which astonished him-
self and sounded wild, but in which he felt sure

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

175

there was some truth, and which, therefore, he
would not abandon, though his father was evi-
dently annoyed, and called it a mere mischiev-
ous sentiment. Each was more moved than
he would have liked to own ; each in his own
heart felt aggrieved, and blamed the other for
not understanding him. But, though obstinate
on the general question, upon the point of his
leaving the Grange Tom was fairly brought to
shame, and gave in at last, and expressed his
sorrow, though he could not help maintaining
that, if his father could have heard what took
place, and seen the man’s manner, he would
scarcely blame him for what he had said and
done. Having once owned himself in the
wrong, however, there was nothing for it but to
write an apology, the composition of which was
as disagreeable a task as had ever fallen to his
lot.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MHAEN AFAN.

Has any person, of any nation or language,
found out and given to the world any occupa-
tion, work, diversion, or pursuit more subtlely
dangerous to the susceptible youth of both sex-
es than that of nutting in pairs. If so, who,
where, what ? A few years later in life, per-
haps district visiting, and attending schools to-
gether, may in certain instances be more fatal ;
but, in the first bright days of youth, a day’s
nutting against the world! A day in autumn,
warm enough to make sitting in sheltered
nooks in the woods, wherever the sunshine lies,
very pleasant, and .yet not too warm 'to make
exercise uncomfortable — two young people who
have been thrown much together, one of whom
is conscious of the state of his feelings to-
wards the other, and is, moreover, aware that
his hours are numbered, that in a few days
at farthest they will be separated for many
months, that persons in authority, on both sides,
are beginning to suspect something (as is ap-
parent from the difficulty they have had in get-
ting away together at all on this same after-
noon)— here is a conjunction of persons and
circumstances, if ever there wms one in the
world, which is surely likely to end in a catas-
trophe. Indeed, so obvious to the meanest ca-
pacity is the danger of the situation, that, as
Tom had, in his own mind, staked his charac-
ter for resolution with his private self on the
keeping of his secret till after he was of age, it
is hard to conceive how he can have been foolish
enough to get himself into a hazel copse alone
with Miss Mary on the earliest day he could
manage it after the arrival of the Porters, on
their visit to Mr. and Mrs. Brorvn. That is to
say, it would be hard to conceive, if it didn’t just
happen to be the most natural thing in the world.

For the first twenty-four hours after their
meeting in the home of his fathers, the two i
young people, and Tom in particular, felt very j
uncomfortable. Mary, being a young lady of |

very high spirits, and, as readers may probably
have discovered, much given to that kind of
conversation which borders as nearly upon
what men commonly call chaff as a well-bred
girl can venture on, w’as annoyed to find her-
self quite at fault in all her attempts to get her
old antagonist of Commemoration to show fight.
She felt in a moment how changed his manner
was, and thought it by no means changed for
the better. As for Tom, he felt foolish and
shy at first to an extent which drove him half
wild ; his words stuck in his throat, and he
took to blushing again like a boy of fourteen.
In fact, he got so angry with himself that he
rather avoided her actual presence, though she
was scarcely a moment out of his sight. IMr.
Brown made the best of his son’s retreat, de-
voted himself most gallantly to Mary, and was
completely captivated by her before bed-time
on the first night of their visit. He triumphed
over his wife when they were alone, and laugh-
ed at the groundlessness of her suspicions. But
she was by no means so satisfied on the subject
as her husband.

In a day or two, however, Tom began to take
heart of grace, and to find himself oftener at
Mary’s side, with something to say, and more to
look. But now she, in her turn, began to be
embarrassed ; for all attempts to re-establish
their old footing failed, and the difficulty of
finding a satisfactory new one remained to be
solved. So for the present, though neither of
them found it quite satisfactoiy, they took ref-
uge in the presence of a third party, and attach-
ed themselves to Katie, talking at one another
through her. Nothing could exceed Katie’s
judiciousness as a medium of communication ;
and through her a better understanding began
to establish itself, and the visit which both of
them had been looking forward to so eagerly seem-
ed likely, after all, to be as pleasant in fact as
it had been in anticipation. As they became
more at ease, the vigilance of Mrs. Brown and
Mrs. Porter seemed likely to revive. But in a
country house there must be plenty of chances
for young folk who mean it, to be together ;
and so they found and made use of their oppor-
tunities, giving at the same time as little cause
to their natural guardians as possible for any
serious interference. The families got on, on
the whole, so well together, that the visit was
prolonged from the original four or five days to
a fortnight ; and this time of grace was drawing
to a close when the event happened which
made the visit memorable to our hero.

On the morning in question, Mr. Brown ar-
ranged at breakfast that he and his wife should
drive Mr. and Mrs. Porter to make calls on several
of the neighbors. Tom declared his intention
of taking a long day after the partridges, and
the young ladies were to go and make a sketch
of the house from a point which Katie had
chosen. Accordingly, directly after luncheon,
the carriage came round and the elders depart-
ed ; and the young ladies started together, car-
rying their sketching apparatus with them.

17G

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

It was probably a bad day for scent ; for they
had not been gone a quarter of an hour when
Tom came home, deposited his gun, and follow-
ed on their steps. He found them sitting un-
der the lee of a high bank, sufficiently intent
on their drawings, but neither surprised nor sor-
ry to find that he had altered his mind, and
come back to interrupt them. So he lay down
near them, and talked of Oxford and Engle-
bourn, and so from one thing to another, till he
got upon’ the subject of nutting, and the sylvan
beauties of a neighboring wood. Mary was get-
ting on badly with her drawing, and jumped at
the idea of a ramble in the wood ; but Katie
was obdurate, and resisted all their solicitations
to move. She suggested, however, that they
might go ; and, as Tom declared that they
should not be out of call, and would be back in
half an hour at farthest, Mary consented ; and
they left the sketcher, and strolled together out
of the fields, and into the road, and so through
a gate into the wood. It was a pleasant oak
wood. The wild flowers were over, but the great
masses of ferns, four or five feet high, made a
grand carpet round the stems of the forest mon-
archs, and a fitting couch for here and there one
of them Avhich had been lately felled, and lay in
fallen majesty, with bare shrouded trunk, await-
ing the sawyers. Farther on, the hazel under-
wood stood thickly on each side of the green
rides, down which they sauntered side by side.
Tom talked of the beauty of the wood in spring-
time, and the glorious succession of coloring —
pale yellow, and deep blue and white, and pur-
ple— which the primroses, and hyacinths and
starwort, and foxgloves gave, each in their
turn, in the early year, and mourned over their
absence. But Mary preferred autumn, and
would not agree with him. She was enthusi-
astic for ferns and heather. He gathered some
sprigs of the latter for her, from a little sandy
patch which they passed, and some more for his
own button-hole ; and then they engaged in the
absorbing pursuit of nutting, and the talk almost
ceased. He caught the higher branches, and
bent them down to her, and watched her as she
gathered them, and wondered at the ease and
grace of all her movements, and the unconscious
beauty of her attitudes. Soon she became
more enterprising herself, and made little ex-
cursions into the copse, surmounting briers, and
passing through tangled places like a Naiad, be-
fore he could be there to help her. And so they
went on, along the rides and through the copse,
forgetting Katie and time, till they were brought
up by the fence on the farther side of the wood.
The ditch was on the outside, and on the inside
a bank with a hedge on the top, full of tempt-
ing hazel-bushes. She clapped her hands at
the sight, and, declining his help, stepped light-
ly i^p the bank and began gathering. He turn-
ed away for a moment, jumped up the bank
himself, and followed her example.

He was standing up in the hedge, and reach-
ing after a tempting cluster of nuts, when he
heard a short sharp cry of pain behind him.

which made him spring backward, and nearly
miss his footing as he came to the ground. Re-
covering himself, and turning round, he saw
Mary lying at the foot of the bank writhing in
pain.

He was at her side in an instant, and dread-
fully alarmed.

“Good heavens! what has happened?” he
said.

“My ankle!” she cried; and the effort of
speaking brought the sudden flush of pain to
her brow.

“ Oh ! what can I do ?”

“ The boot ! the boot !” she said, leaning for-
ward to unlace it, and then sinking back against
the bank. “It is so painful ! I hope I shan’t
faint.”

Poor Tom could only clasp his hands as he
knelt by her, and repeat, “Oli, Avhat can I do?
— what can I do ?” His utter bewilderment
presently roused Mary, and her natural high
courage was beginning to master the pain.

“ Have you a knife ?”

“Yes — here,” he said, pulling one out of his
pocket and opening it ; “ here it is.”

“ Please cut the lace.”

Tom, with beating heart and trembling hand,
cut the lace, and then looked up at her.

“Oh, be quick — cut it again! Don’t be
afraid.”

He cut it again ; and, without taking hold of
the foot, gently pulled out the ends of the lace.

She again leaned forward, and tried to take
off the boot ; but the pain was too great, and
she sank back, and put her hand up to her flush-
ed face.

“ May I try ? — perhaps I could do it.”

“ Yes, pray do. Oh, I can’t bear the pain !”
she added, next moment ; and Tom felt ready
to bang himself for having been the cause of it.
“You must cut the boot off, please.”

“But perhaps I may cut you. Do you real-
ly mean it?”

“Yes, really. There, take care. How your
hand shakes. You will never do for a doctor.”
His hand did shake, certainly. He had cut
a little hole in the stocking ; but, under the
circumstances, we need not wonder — the situa-
tion was new and trying. Urged on by her, he
cut and cut away, and, at last, off came the
boot, and her beautiful little foot lay on the
green turf. She was much relieved at once,
but still in great pain ; and now he began to
recover his head.

‘ ‘ The ankle should be bound up ; may I try ?”
“ Oh yes ; but what with ?”

Tom dived into his shooting-coat pocket, and
produced one of the large, many-colored neck-
wrappers which were fashionable at 0;xford in
those days.

“How lucky!” he said, as he tore it into
strips. “I think this will do. Now, you’ll
stop me, won’t you, if I hurt, or don’t do it
right ?”

“ Don’t be afraid. I’m much better. Bind it
tight — tighter than that.”

TOM BKOM^N AT OXFORD.

177

Ho wound the strips as tenderly as he could
round her foot and ankle, with hands all alive
with nerves, and wondering more and moi'e at
her courage as she kept urging him to draw
the bandage tighter yet. Then, still under her
direction, he fastened and pinned down the
ends; and as he was rather neat with his fin-
gers, from the practice of tying flies and splic-
ing rods and bats, produced, on the whole, a
creditable sort of bandage. Then he looked
up at her, the perspiration standing on his fore-
liead, as if he had been pulling a race, and said :
“Will that do? I’m afraid it’s very awk-
ward.”

“Oh no; thank you so much! But I’m so
sorry you have torn your handkerchief.”

Tom made no' answer to this remark except
by a look. What could he say, but that he
would gladly have torn his skin off for the
same purpose , if it would have been of any use.
But this speech did not seem quite the thing
for the moment.

“ But how do you feel ? Is it very painful ?”
he asked.

“ Rather. But don’t look so anxious. In-
deed, it is very bearable. But what are we to
do now ?”

He thought for a moment, and said, with
something like a sigh —

“Shall I run home, and bring the servants,
and a sofa or something to carry you on?”

“No ; I shouldn’t like to be left here alone.”
His face brightened again.

“How near is the nearest cottage?” she
asked.

“There’s none nearer than the one which we
passed on the road — on the other side of the
wmod, you know.”

“ Then I must try to get there. You must
help me up.”

He sprang to his feet, and stooped over her,
doubting how to begin helping her. He had
never felt so shy in his life. He held out his
hands.

“ I think you must put your arm round me,”
she said, after looking at him for a moment.
He lifted her on to her feet.

“Now let me lean on your arm. There, I
dare say I shall manage to hobble along well
enough ;” and she made a brave attempt to
walk. But the moment the injured foot touch-
ed the ground, she stopped with a catch of her
breath, and a shiver, which went through Tom
like a knife ; and the flush came back into her
face, 4ind she would have fallen had he not
again put his arm round her waist and held her
up. “I am better again now,” she said, after
a second or two.

“ But, Mary, dear Mary, don’t try to vyalk
again. For my sake. I can’t bear it.”

“ But what am I to do?” she said. “ I must
get back somehow.”

“Will you let me carry you?”

She looked in his face again, and then drop-
ped her eyes, and hesitated.

“I wouldn’t offer, dear, if there were any
12

other way. But you mustn’t walk. Indeed,
you must not ; you may lame yourself for life.”

He spoke very quietly, with his eyes fixed on
the ground, though his heart was beating so
that ho feared she would hear it.

“Very well,” she said ; “ but I’m very Iicavy.”

So he lifted her gently, and stepped off down
the ride, carrying his whole world in his arms,
in an indescribable flutter of joy, and triumph,
and fear. He had gone some forty yards or
so, when he staggered, and stopped for a mo-
ment.

“Oh, pray put me down — pray do! You’ll
hurt yourself. I’m too heavy.”

For the credit of muscular Cliristianitv, one
must say. that it was not her weight, but tlie tu-
mult in his own inner man, which made her
bearer totter. Nevertheless, if one is wholly
unused to the exercise, the carrying a healthy
young English girl weighing a good eight
stone, is as much as most men can convenient-
ly manage.

“I’ll just put you down for a moment,” he
said. “Now take care of the foot;” and he
stooped, and placed her tenderly against one of
the oaks which bordered the ride, standing by
her side without looking at her. Neither of
them spoke for a minute. Then he asked,
still looking away down the ride, “How is the
foot?”

“ Oh, pretty well,” she answered, cheerfully.
“ Now leave me here, and go for help. It is
absurd of me to mind being left, and you mustn’t
carry me any more.”

He turned, and their eyes met for a moment,
but that was enough.

“Are you ready ?” he said.

“ Yes, but take care. Don’t go far. Stop
directly you feel tired.”

Then he lifted her again, and this time car-
ried her without faltering till they came to a
hillock covered with soft grass. Here they rest-
ed again, and so, by easy stages, he carried her
through the wood and out into the road, to the
nearest cottage, neither of them speaking.

An old woman came to the door in answer to
his kick, and went off into ejaculations of pity
and wonder in the broadest Berkshire, at seeing
Master Tom and his burden. But he pushed
into the house and cut her short with —

“Now, Mrs. Pike, don’t talk, that’s a dear-
good woman, but bustle about, and bring that
arm-chair here, and the other low one, with a
pillow on it, for the young lady’s foot to rest
on.”

The old woman obeyed his injunctions ex-
cept as to talking; and, while she placed the
chairs and shook up the pillow, descanted on
the sovereign virtues of some green oil and opo-
deldoc, which was as good as a charm for sprains
and bruises.

Mary gave him one grateful look as he low-
ered her tenderly and reluctantly into the chair,
and then spoke cheerf ally to Mrs. Pike, who was
foraging in a cupboard, to find if there was any
of her famous specific in the bottom of the boS-

178

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

tie. As he stood up and thought what to do
next, he heard the sound of distant wheels, and,
looking through the window, saw the carriage
coming homeward. It was a sorrowful sight
to him.

“Now, Mrs. Pike,” he said, “ never mind the
oil. Here’s the carriage coming ; just step out
and stop it.”

The old dame scuttled out into the road.
The carriage was within one hundred yards,
lie leaned over the rough arm-chair in which
she was leaning back, looked once more into her
eyes, and then, stooping forward, kissed her lips,
and the next moment was by the side of Mrs.
Pike, signalling the coachman to stop.

In the bustle which followed, he stood aside
and watched Mary, with his heart in his mouth.
She never looked at him, but there was no an-
ger, but only a dreamy look in her sweet face,
which seemed to him a thousand times more
beautiful than ever before. Then, to avoid in-
quiries, and to realize all that had passed in the
last wonderful three hours, he slipped away
while they were getting her into the carriage,
and wandered back into the wood, pausing at
each of their halting-places. At last he reached
the scene of the accident, and here his cup of
happiness was likely to biim over, for he found
the mangled little boot and the cut lace, and, se-
curing the precious prize, hurried back home, to
be in time for dinner.

Mary did not come down ; but Katie, the only
person of whom he dared to inquire, assured
him that she was doing famously. The dinner
was very embarrassing, and he had the greatest
difficulty in answering the searching inquiries
of his mother and Mrs. Porter as to how, when,
where, and in whose presence the accident had
happened. As soon as the ladies rose, he left
his father and Mr. Porter over their old port
and politics, and went out in the twilight into
the garden, burdened with the weight of sweet
thought. He felt that he had something to do
— to set himself quite right with Mary ; he must
speak somehow, that night, if possible, or he
should not be comfortable or at peace with his
conscience. There rvere lights in her room.
He guessed by the shadows that she was lying
on a couch by the open window, round which
the other ladies were flitting. Presently lights
appeared in the drawing-room ; and, as the shut-
ters were being closed, he saw his mother and
Mrs. Porter come in and sit down near the fire.
Listening intently, he heard Katie talking in a
low voice in the room above, and saw her head
against the light as she sat down close to the
window, probably at the head of the couch
where Mary was lying. Should he call to her?
If he did, how could he say what he wanted to
say through her ?

A happy thought struck him. He turned to
the flower-beds, hunted about and gathered a
bunch of heliotrope, hurried up to his room, took
the sprig of heather out of his shooting-coat, tied
them together, caught up a reel and line from
his table, and tvent into the room over Mary’s.

He threw the window open, and, leaning out,
said gently, “Katie.” No answer. He repeat-
ed the name louder. No answer still, and, lean-
ing out yet farther, he saw that the window had
been shut. He lowered the bunch of flowers,
and, swinging it backward and forward, made it
strike the window below — once, twice; at the
third stroke he heard the window open.

“ Katie,” he whispered again, “is that you ?”

“Yes, where are you ? What is this ?”

“For her,” he said, in the same whisper.
Katie untied the flowers, and he waited a few
moments, and then again called her name, and
she answered.

“Has she the flowers?” he asked.

“ Yes, and she sends you her love, and says
you are to go down to the drawing-room and
with that the window closed, and he went down
with a lightened conscience into the drawing-
room, and, after joining in the talk by the fire
for a few minutes, took a book and sat down at
the farther side of the table. Whether he ever
knew what the book was may be fairly question-
ed, but to all appearances he was deep in the
perusal of it till the tea and Katie arrived, and
the gentlemen from the dining-room. Then
he tried to join in the conversation again ; but,
on the whole, life was a burden to him that
night till he could get fairly away to his own
room and commune with himself, gazing at the
yellow harvest -moon, with his elbows on the
window-sill.

The ankle got well very quickly, and Mary
was soon going about with a gold-headed stick
which had belonged to Mr. Brown’s father, and
a limp which Tom thought the most beautiful
movement he had ever seen. But, though she
was about again, by no amount of patient vigi-
lance could he now get the chance of speaking
to her alone. But he consoled himself with
the thought that she must understand him ; if
he had spoken he couldn’t have made himself
clearer.

And now the Porters’ visit was all but over,
and Katie and her father left for Englebourn.
The Porters were to follow the next day, and
promised to drive round and stop at the rectory
for lunch. Tom petitioned for a seat in their
carriage to Englebourn. He had been devoting
himself to Mrs. Porter ever since the accident,
and had told her a good deal about his own
early life. His account of his eaidy friendship
for Betty and her son, and the renewal of it on
the day he left Barton Manor, had interested
her, hnd she was moreover not insensible to his
assiduous and respectful attentions to herself,
which had of late been quite marked : she was
touched, too, at his anxiety to hear all about
her boys, and how they were going on at school.
So, on the whole, Tom was in high favor with
her, and she most graciously assented to his oc-
cupying the fourth seat in their barouche. She
was not without her suspicions of the real state
of the case with him ; but his behavior had been
so discreet that she had no immediate fears ;
and, after all, if any thing should come of it

TOM BROWN

some years hence, her daughter might do worse.
In the mean time she would see plenty of soci-
ety in London, where Mr. Porter s Avocations kept
him during the greater part of the year.

They reached Englebourn after a pleasant
long morning’s drive ; and Tom stole a glance
at Mary, and felt that she understood him, as
he pointed out the Hawk’s Lynch and the clump
of Scotch firs to her mother; and told how you
might see Barton from the top of it, and how
he loved the place, and the old trees, and the
view.

Katie Avas at the door ready to receive them,
and carried off Mary and Mrs. Porter to her
own room. Tom walked round the garden
with Mr. Porter, and then sat in the drawing-
room, and felt melancholy. He roused himself,
however, Avhen the ladies came down and lunch-
eon was announced. Mary was full of lier rem-
iniscences of the Englebourn people, and espe-
cially of poor Mrs. Winburn and her son, in
whom she had begurf to take a deep interest,
perhaps from OA'erhearing some of Tom’s talk
to her mother. So Harry’s story Avas canvassed
again, and Katie told them hoAV he had been
turned out of his cottage, and hoAv anxious she
was as to Avhat Avould come of it.

“And is he going to marry your gardener’s
daughter, after all ?” asked Mrs. Porter.

“lam afraid there is not much chance of it,”
said Katie ; “I can not make Martha out.”

“Is she at home, Katie?” asked Mary; “I
should like to see her again. I took a great
fancy to her Avhen I Avas here.”

“Yes, she is at the lodge. We Avill Avalk
there after luncheon.”

So it Avas settled that the carriage should pick
them up at the lodge ; and soon after luncheon,
Avhile the horses Avere being put to, the Avhole
party started for the lodge after saying good-bye
to Mr. Winter, Avho retired to his room much
fatigued by his unAvonted hospitality.

Old Simon’s wife ansAvered their knock at
the lodge door, and they all entered, and Mrs.
Porter paid her compliments on the cleanliness
of the room.

Then Mary said, “Is your daughter at home,
Mrs. Gibbons?”

“Ees, miss, someweres handy,” replied Mrs.
Gibbons; “ her hav’n’t been gone out, not dree
minnit.”

“ I should like so much to say good-bye to
her,” said Mary. “ We shall be leaving Bar-
ton soon, and I shall not see her again till next
summer.”

“Lor bless’ee, miss, ’tis AA’erry good oA^’oe, ”
said the old dame A’ery proud ; “ do’ee set
doAvn, then, Avhile I gees her a call.” And
Avith that she hurried out of the door Avhich led
through the back kitchen into the little yard
behind the lodge, and the next moment they
heard her calling out ;

“ Patty ! Patty ! Avher hist got to ? Come in
and see the gentlefolk.”

The. name Avhich the old Avoman Avas calling
out made Tom start.

AT OXFORD. 179

“ I thought you said her name Avas IMartha,”
said Mrs. Porter.

“Patty is short for Martha in Berkshire,”
said Katie, laughing.

“ And Patty is such a pretty name. I Avon-
der you don’t call her Patty,” said Mary.

“ We had a housemaid of the same name a
year or tAvo ago, and it made such a confusion
— and Avhen one once gets used to a name it is
so hard to change — so she hasalAvays been call-
ed Martha.”

“Well, I’m all for Patty; don't you think
so?” said Mary, turning to Tom.

The sudden introduction of a name Avhich he
had such reasons for remembering, the memo-
ries and fears Avhich it called up — above all, the
beAvilderment Avhich he felt at hearing it tossed
about and canvassed by Mary in his presence, as
if there Avere nothing more in it than in any
other name — confused him so that he fiounder-
ed and blundered in his attempt to ansAver, and
at last gave it up altogether. She Avas surprised,
and looked at him inquiringly. His eyes fell
before hers, and he turned aAvay to the AvindoAv,
and looked at the carriage, Avliich had just
draAvn up at the lodge-door. He had scarcely
time to think hoAv foolish he Avas to be so moved,
when he heard the back kitchen door oiien
again, and the old Avoman and her daughter
come in. He turned round sharpl)'-, and there
on the floor of the room, courtesying to the
ladies, stood the ex-barmaid of “The Choughs.”
His first impulse Avas to hurry away — she Avas
looking doAvn, and he might not be recognized ;
his next, to stand his ground and take Avhatever
might come. Mary went up to her and took
her hand, saying that she could not go aAvay
without coming to see her. Patty looked up to
ansAver, and, glancing round the room, caught
sight of him.

He stepped foiuvard, and then stopped and
tried to speak, but no words would come. Pat-
ty looked at him, dropped Maryv’s hand, blushed
up to the roots of her hair as she looked timidly
round at the Avondering spectators, and, putting
her hands to her face, ran out of the back door
again.

“ LaAvk a massy ! AvhateA’er can ha’ cum to our
Patty?” said Mrs. Gibbons, folloAving her out.

“I think Ave had better go,” said Mr. Por-
ter, giving his arm to his daughter, and leading
her to the door, “Good-bye, Katie; shall Ave
see you again at Barton ?”

“I don’t know, uncle,” Katie ansAvered, fol-
loAving Avith Mrs. Porter in a state of sad beAvil-
dermont.

Tom, Avith his brains SAvimming, got out a
few stammering fareAvell Avords, Avhich Mr. and
Mrs. Porter receiA’ed Avith marked coldness as
they stepped into their carriage. Mary’s face
Avas flushed and uneasy, but at her he scarce-
ly dared to steal a look, and to her he Avas quite
unable to speak a Avord.

Then the carriage drove off, and he turned
and found Katie standing at his side, her eyes
full of serious AA'onder. His fell before them.

180

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ My dear Tom,” she said, “ what is all this ?
I thought you had never seen Martha ?”

“ So I thought — I didn’t know — I can’t talk
now — I’ll explain all to you — don’t think very
badly of me, Katie — God bless you ! ” with which
words he strode away, while she looked after
him with increasing wonder, and then turned
and went into the lodge.

He hastened away from the Rectory and
down the village street, taking the road home
mechanically, but otherwise wholly unconscious
of roads and men. David, who was very anx-
ious to speak to him about Harry, stood at his
door making signs to him to stop, in vain : and
then gave chase, calling out after him, till he
saw that all attempts to attract Ins notice were
useless, and so ambled back to his shop-board
much troubled in mind.

The first object which recalled Tom at all to
himself was the little white cottage looking out
of Englebourn copse towards tlie village, in
which he had sat by poor Betty’s death-bed.
The garden was already getting wild and tan-
gled, and the house seemed to be uninhabited.
He stopped for a moment and looked at it
with bitter searchings of heart. Here was
t!ie place where he had taken such a good
turn, as he had fondly hoped — in connection
with the then inmates of which he had made
the strongest good resolutions he had ever
made in his life perhaps. What was the good
of his trying to befriend any body ? His friend-
ship turned to a blight ; whatever he had as yet
tried to do for Harry had only injured him, and
now how did they stand ? Could they ever be
friends again after that day’s discovery? To
do him justice, the probable ruin of all his own
prospects, the sudden coldness of Mr. and Mrs.
Porter’s looks, and Mary’s averted face, were
not the things he thought of first, and did not
trouble him most. He thought of Harry, and
shuddered at the wrong he had done him as he
looked at his deserted home. The door opened
and a figure appeared. It was Mr. Wurley’s
agent, the lawyer who had been employed by
Farmer Tester in his contest with Harry and
his mates about the pound. The man of law
saluted him with a smirk of scarcely concealed
triumph, and then turned into the house again
and shut the door, as if he did not consider fur-
ther communication necessaiy or safe. Tom
turned with a muttered imprecation on him
and his master, and hurried away along the lane
which led to the heath; The Hawk’s Lynch
lay above him, and he climbed the side mechan-
ically and sat himself again on the old spot.

He sat for some time looking over the land-
scape, graven on his mind as it was by his former
visit, and bitterly, oh, how bitterly ! did the re-
membrance of that visit, and of the exultation
and triumph which then filled him, and carried
him away over the heath with a shout towards
his home, come back on him. He could look

out from his watch-tower no longer, and lay
down with his face between his hands on the
turf, and groaned as he lay.

But his good angel seemed to haunt the place,
and soon the cold fit began to pass away, and
better and more hopeful thoughts to return.
After all, what had he done since his last visit
to that place to be ashamed of ? Nothing. His
attempts to do Harry service, unlucky as they
had proved, had been honest. Had he become
less worthy of the love which had first conscious-
ly mastered him there some four weeks ago?
No ; he felt, on the contrary, that it had already
raised him, and purified him, and made a man
of him. But this last discovery, how could he
ever get over that? Well, after all, the facts
were just the same as before; only now they
had come out. It was right that they should
have come out ; better for him and for every
one that they should be known and faced. He
was ready to face them, to abide any conse-
quences that they might now bring in their
train. His heart w'as right towards Mary, to-
wards Patty, towards Harry — that he felt sure
of. And, if so, why should he despair of either
his love or his friendship coming to a good end ?

And so he sat up again, and looked oirt brave-
ly towards Barton, and began to consider what
was to be done. His eyes rested on the Rec-
tory. That was the first place to begin with.
He must set himself right with Katie — let her
know the whole story. Through her he could
reach all the rest, and do whatever must be
done to clear the ground and start fresh again.

At first he thought of returning to her (it
once, and rose to go down to Englebourn. But
any thing like retracing his steps was utterly
distasteful to him just then. Before him he
saw light, dim enough as yet, but still a dawn-
ing ; towards that he would press, leaving every
thing behind him to take care of itself. So he
turned northward, and struck across the heath
at his best pace. The violent exercise almost
finished his cure, and his thoughts became clearer
and more hopeful as he neared home. Fie ar-
rived there as the household were going to bed,
and found a letter waiting for him. It was from
Hardy, saying that Blake had left him, and he
was now thinking of returning to Oxford, and
would come for his long-talked-of visit to Berk-
shire, if Tom was still at home, and in the mind
to receive him.

Never was a letter more 0])portune. Here
was the tried friend on whom he could rely for
help and advice and sympathy — who knew all
the facts, too, from beginning to end ! His fa-
ther and mother were delighted to hear that
they should now see the friend of whom he had
spoken so much. So he went up stairs and
wrote an answer which set Hardy to work
packing liis portmanteau in the Far West, and
brought him speedily to the side of his friend
under the lee of the Berkshire hills.

TOil BROWN AT OXFORD.

181

CHAPTER XXXV.

SECOND YEAR.

For some days after his return home — in
fact, until his friend’s arrival — Tom was thor-
oughly beaten down and wretched, notwithstand-
ing his efforts to look hopefully forward and keep
up his spirits. His usual occupations were ut-
terly distasteful to him ; and, instead of occu-
pying himself, he sat brooding over his late
misfortune, and hopelessly puzzling his head as
to what he could do to set matters right. The
conviction in which he always landed was that
there was nothing to be done, and that he was a
desolate and blighted being, deserted of gods
and men. Hardy’s pi’esence and company soon
shook him out of this maudlin, nightmare state,
and he began to recover as soon as he had his
old sheet-anchor friend to hold on to and con-
sult with. Their consultations were held chief-
ly in the intervals of woodcraft, in which they
spent most of the hours between breakfast and
dinner. Hardy did not take out a certificate,
and wouldn’t shoot without one ; so, as the best
autumn exercise, they selected a tough old pol-
lard elm, infinitely ugly, with.knotted and twist-
ed roots, curiously difficult to get at and cut
through, which had been long marked as a blot
by Mr. Brown, and condemned to be felled as
soon as there was nothing more pressing for his
men to do. But there Avas always something of
more importance ; so that the cross-grained old
tree might have remained until this day, had
not Hardy and Tom pitched on him as a foe-
man worthy of their axes. They shoA^elled, and
picked, and hewed away with great energy. The
woodman, who visited them occasionally, and
who, on examining their first efforts, had re-
marked that the severed roots looked a little
“ as tho’ the dogs had beeil a gnarvin’ at ’em,”
began to hold them in respect, and to tender
his advice with some deference. By the time
the tree was felled and shrouded Tom Avas in a
convalescent state.

Their occupation had naturally led to dis-
cussions on the advantages of emigration, the
delights of clearing one’s OAvn estate, building
one’s OAvn house, and getting aAvay from con-
ventional life Avith a fcAv tried friends. Of
course the pictures which were painted included
foregrounds Avith beautiful children playing
about the clearing, and graceful Avomen, Avives
of the happy squatters, flitting in and out of
the log-houses and sheds, clothed and occupied
after the manner of our ideal grandmothers;
Avith the health and strength of Amazons, the
refinement of high-bred ladies, and wondrous
skill in all domestic Avorks, confections, and
contrivances. The log-houses would also con-
tain fascinating select libraries, continually re-
inforced from home, sufficient to keep all dwell-
ers in the happy clearing in communion with
all the highest minds of their OAvn and former
generations. Wondrous games in the neigh-
boring forest, dear old home customs establish-
ed and taki.ng root in the Avilderness, Avith ulti-

mate dainty floAA'er-gardens, conseiwatories, and
piano-fortes — a millennium on a small scale,
Avith universal education, competence, prosper-
ity, and equal rights! Such castle-building as
an accompaniment to the hard exercise of Avood-
craft Avorked wonders for Tom in tlie next
Aveek, and may be safely recommended to par-
ties in like e\'il case Avith him.

But more practical discussions Avere not neg-
lected, and it Avas agreed that they should make
a day at Englebourn togetlier before their re-
turn to Oxford, Hardy undertaking to invade
the Rectory Avith the view of re-establishing his
friend’s character there.

Tom AAU’ote a letter to Katie to prepare her
for a visit. The day after the ancient elm Avas
fairly disposed of they started early for Engle-
bourn, and separated at the entrance to the vil-
lage—Hardy proceeding to the Rectory to fulfill
his mission, Avhich he felt to be rather an em-
barrassing one, and Tom to look after the con-
stable, or AvhoeA'er else could give him informa-
tion about Harry.

He arrived at the “ Red Lion,” their appoint-
ed trysting-place, before Hardy, and spent a
restless half-hour in the porch and bar waiting
for his return. At last Hardy came, and Tom
hurried him into the inn’s best room, where
bread and cheese and ale aAvaited them, and,
as soon as the hostess could be got out of the
room, began impatiently :

“ Well, you have seen her ?”

“ Yes, I have come straight here from the
Rectory.”

“And is it all right, eh? Had she got my
letter?”

“ Yes, she had had your letter.”

“And you think she is satisfied?”

“ Satisfied? No, you can’t expect her to be
satisfied.”

“ I mean, is she satisfied that it isn’t so bad
after all as it looked the other day? What
does Katie think of me ?”

“I think she is still very fond of you, but
that she has been puzzled and outraged by this
discovery, and can not get OAxr it all at once.”
“Why didn’t you tell her the Avhole story
from beginning to end ?”

“I tried to do so as well as I could.”

“ Oh, but I can see you haA'en’t done it.
She doesn’t really understand hoAV it is.”

“Perhaps not ; but you must remember it is
an awkward subject to be talking about to a
young Avoman. I Avould sooner stand another
felloAvship examination than go through it
again.”

“ Thank you, old felloAv,” said Tom, laying
his hand on Hardy’s shoulder; “ I feel that I’m
unreasonable and impatient ; but you can ex-
cuse it ; you knoAV that I don’t mean it.”

“Don’t say another Avord ; I only AA'ish I
could have done more for you.”

“But Avhat do you suppose Katie thinks of
me?”

“ Why, you see, it sums itself up in this :
she sees that you huA'c been making serious

182

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED.

love to Patty, and liave turned the poor girl’s
head, more or less, and that now yon are in
love with somebody else. Why, put it how \ve
will, we can't get out of that. There are the
facts, pure and simple, and she wouldn’t be
half a woman if she didn’t resent it.”

“But it’s hard lines, too, isn’t it, old fellow ?
No, I won’t say tliat, I deserve it all, and much
worse. But you think I may come round all
right?”

“Yes, all in good time. I hope there’s no
danger in any other quarter ?”

“Goodness knows! There’s the rub, you
see. She will go back to town disgusted with
me. I shan’t see her again, and she won’t
hera’of me, for I don’t know how long; and she
will be meeting heaps of men. Has Katie been
over to Barton ?”

“Yes; she was there last week, just before
they left.”

“ Well, Avhat happened ?”

“She wouldn’t say much; but I gathered
that they are very well.”

“Oh yes, bother it. Of course, they are
very well. But didn’t she talk to Katie about
what happened last week ?”

“Of course she did. What else should they
talk about ?”

“ But you don’t know what they said?”

“ No. But you may depend on it that Miss
Winter will be your friend. My dear fellow,
there is nothing for it but time.”

“Well, I suppose not,” said Tom, with a
groan. “Do you think I should call and sec
Katie ?”

“No; I think better not.”

“Well, then, w'e may as well get back,” said
Tom, who was not sorry for his friend’s decision.
So they paid t.heir bill and started for home,
taking the Hawk’s Lynch on the way, that
Hardy might see the view.

“And what did you find out about young
Winburn ?” he said, as they passed down the
street.

“ Oh, no good,” said Tom ; “he was turned
out, as I thought, and has gone to live with an
old woman up on the heath here, who is no bet-
ter than she should be ; and none of the farmers
will employ him.”

“You didn’t see him, I suppose ?”

“No; he is away with some of the heath
people, hawking besoms and chairs about the
country. They make them when there is no
harvest work, and loaf about Oxfordshire and
Buckinghamshire, and other counties, selling
them.”

“No good will come of that sort of life, I’m
afraid.”

“No; but what is he to do?”

“I called at the lodge as I came away, and
saw Patty and her mother. It’s all right in
that quarter. The old woman doesn’t seem to
think any thing of it ; and Patty is a good ghd,
and will make Harry Winburn, or any body
else, a capital wife. Here are your letters.”

“ And the locket ?”

“I quite forgot it. Why didn’t you remind
me of it ? You talked of nothing but the let-
ters this morning.”

“I’m glad of it. It can do no harm now,
and, as it is worth something, I should have
been ashamed to take it back. I hope she’ll
put Harry’s hair in it soon. Did she seem to
mind giving up the letters ?”

“ Not very much. No, you are lucky there.
She will get over it.”

“ But you told her that I am her friend for
life, and that she is to let me know if I can ever
do any thing for her ?”

“ Yes. And now I hope this is the last job
of the kind I shall ever have to do for you.”

“ But what bad luck it has been ! If I had
only seen her before, or known who she was,
nothing of all this would have happened.”

To which Hardy made no reply ; and the
subject was not alluded to again in their walk
home.

A day or two afterwards they returned to
Oxford — Hardy to begin his work as fellow and
assistant-tutor of the College, and Tom to see
whether he could not make a better hand of his
second year than he had of his first. He began
with a much better chance of doing so, for he
Avas thoroughly humbled. The discovery that
he was not altogether such a hero as he had
fancied himself had dawned upon him veiy dis-
tinctly by the end of his first year ; and the
events of the long vacation had confirmed the
impression, and pretty well taken all the conceit
out of him for the time. The impotency of his
own will, even when he was bent on doing the
right thing, his want of insight and foresight in
whatever matter he took in hand, the unruliness
of his tempers and passions just at the moments
when it behooved him to have them most thor-
oughly in hand and under control, were a set
of disagreeable facts which had been driven
well home to him. The results, being even
such as Mm have seen, he did not much repine
at, for he felt he had deserved them ; and there
was a sort of grim satisfaction, dreary as the
prospect was, in facing them, and taking his
punishment like a man. This was M'hat he had
felt at the first blush on the Hawk’s Lynch ;
and, as he thought over matters again by his
fire, with his oak sported, on the first evening
of term, he was still in the same mind. This
was clearly what he had to do noM'. How to do
it Avas the only question.

At first he Avas inclined to try to set himself
right Avith the Porters and the Englebourn cir-
cle, by Avriting further explanations and confes-
sions to Katie. But, on trying his hand at a
letter, he found that he could not trust himself.
The temptation of putting eAmry thing in the
best point of view for himself Avas too great ; so
he gaAm up the attempt, and merely Avrote a feAv
lines to David, to remind him that he Avas al-
ways ready and anxious to do all he could for
his friend, Harry Winburn, and to beg that he
might haA'c ncAvs of any thing Avhich happened
to him, and hoAv he Avas getting on. He did

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

not allude to what had lately happened, for he ]
did not know whether the facts had become ^
known, and was in no hurry to open the subject
himself.

Having finished his letter, he turned again
to his meditations over the fire, and, consider-
ing that he Iiad some little right to reward res-
olution, took otf the safety-valve, and allowed
the thoughts to bubble up freely which were al-
ways underlying all others that passed through
his brain, and making constant low, delicious,
but just now somewhat melancholy music, in
his head and heart. He gave himself up to
thinking of Mary, and their walk in the wood,
and the sprained ankle, and all the sayings and
doings of that eventful autumn day. And
then he opened his desk, and examined certain
treasures therein concealed, including a wither-
ed rose-bud, a sprig of heather, a cut boot-lace,
and a scrap or two of writing. Having gone
through some extravagant forms of worship,
not necessary to be specified, he put them
away. Would it ever all come rigiit ?

He made his solitary tea, and sat down
again to consider the point. But the point
would not be considered alone. He began to
feel more strongly what he had had several hints
of already, that there was a curiously close con-
nection between his own love-story and that of
Harry Winburn and Batty — and that he couldn’t
separate them, even in his thoughts. Old Si-
mon’s tumble, which had recalled his daughter
from Oxford at so critical a moment for him ;
Mary’s visit to Englebourn at this very time;
the curious yet natural series of little accidents
which had. kept him in ignorance of Batty’s
identity until the final catastrophe — then again,
the day in which Harry Winburn and his moth-
er had come across him on the very day of his
leaving Barton ; the fellowship of a common
mourning which had seemed to bind them to-
gether so closely ; and this last discovery,
which he could not help fearing must turn Har-
ry into a bitter enemy, when he heard the truth
— as he must, sooner or later — as all these
things passed before him, he gave in to a sort
of superstitious feeling that his own fate hung
in some way or another upon that of Harry Win-
burn. If he helped on his suit, he was help-
ing on his own ; but whether he helped on his
own or not, was, after all, not that which was
uppermost in his thoughts. He was much
changed in this respect since he last sat in those
rooms, just after his first days with her. Since
then an angel had met him, and had “ touched
the chord of self, which, trembling,” was pass-
ing “ in music out of sight.”

The thought of Harry and his trials enabled
him to indulge in some good honest indignation,
for which there was no room in his own case.
That the prospects in life of such a man should
be in the power, to a great extent, of such peo-
ple as Squire Wurley and Farmer Tester ; that,
because he happened to be poor, he should be
turned out of the cottage where his family had
lived for a hundred years, at a week’s notice,

is;j

] through the caprice of a drunken gambler ; that,

I because he had stood up for his rights, and had
thereby offended the worst farmer in the parish,
he should be a marked man, and unable to get
work — these things appeared so monstrous to
Tom, and made him so angry, that he was
obliged to get up and stamp about the room.
And from the particular case he very soon got
to generalizations.

Questions which had before now puzzled
him gained a new significance every minute,
and became real to him. Wliy a few men
should be rich, and all the rest poor; above all,
why he should be one of the few ? Why the
mere possession of property should give a man
power over all his neighbors? Why poor men
who were ready and willing to work should
only be allowed to work as a sort of favor, and
should, after all, get the merest tithe of what
their labor produced, and be tossed aside as
soon as their work was done, or no longer re-
quired ? These, and other such problems, rose
up before him, crude and sharp, asking to
be solved. Feeling himself quite unable to
give any but one answer to them — viz., tliat
he was getting out of his depth, and that the
whole business was in a muddle — he had re-
course to his old method when in difficulties,
and, putting on his cap, started off to Hardy’s
rooms to talk the matter over, and see whether
he could not get some light on it from that
quarter.

He returned in an hour or so, somewhat less
troubled in his mind, inasmuch as he had found
his friend in pretty much the same state of
mind on such topics as himself. But one step
he had gained. Under his arm he carried cer-
tain books from Hardy’s scanty library, the pe-
rusal of which he hoped, at least, might enable
him sooner or later to feel that he had got on
to some sort of firm ground. At any rate. Hardy
had advised him to read them ; so, without
more ado, he drew his chair to the table and
began to look into them.

This glimpse of the manner in which Tom
spent the first evening of his second year at Ox-
ford will enable intelligent readers to under-
stand why, though he took to reading far more
kindly and earnestly than he had ever done
before, he made no great advance in the proper
studies of the place. Not that he wholly neg-
lected these, for Hardy kept him pretty well up
to the collar, and he passed his little-go credit-
‘ably, and was fairly placed at the college exami-
nations. In some of the books which he had
to get up for lectures he was really interested.
The politics of Athens, the struggle between the
Roman plebs and patricians, Mons Sacer and
the Agrarian Laws — these began to have a
new meaning to him, but chiefly because they
bore more or less on the great Harry Winburn
problem ; which problem, indeed, for him had
now fairly swelled into the condition-of-England
problem, and was becoming every day more and
more urgent and importunate, shaking many old
beliefs, and leading him whither he knew not.

181

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

This very matter of leading was a sore trial
to him. The farther he got on his new road the
more he felt the \vant of guidance — the guidance
of some man ; for that of books he soon found
to be bewildering. His college tutor, whom he
consulted, only deprecated the waste of time ;
but on finding it impossible to dissuade him, at
last recommended the economic works of that
day as the proper well-springs of truth on such
matters. To them Tom accordingly went, and
read with the docility and faith of youth, bent
on learning, and feeling itself in the presence
of men who had, or assumed, the right of speak-
ing with authority.

And they spoke to him with authority, and he
read on, believing much and hoping more ; but
somehow they did not really satisfy him, though
they silenced him for the time. It was not the
fault of the books, most of which laid down
clearly enough that what they professed to teach
was the science of man’s material interests, and
the laws of the making and employment of cap-
ital. But this escaped him in his eagerness,
and he wandered up and down their pages in
search of quite another science, and of laws with
which they did not meddle. Nevertheless, here
and there they seemed to touch upon what he
was in search of. He was much fascinated, for
instance, by the doctrine of “ the greatest hap-
piness of the greatest number,” and for its sake
swallowed for a time, though not without wry
faces, the dogmas, that self-interest is the true
pivot of all social action, that population has a
perpetual tendency to outstrip the means of liv-
ing, and that to establish a preventive check on
population is the duty of all good citizens. And
so he lived on for some time in a dreary uncom-
fortable state, fearing for the future of his coun-
try, and with little hope about his own. But
when he came to take stock of his newly-ac-
quired knowledge, to weigh it and measure it,
and found it to consist of a sort of hazy convic-
tion that society would be all right and ready for
the millennium, when every man could do what
he liked, and nobody could interfere with him,
and there should be a law against marriage, the
result was more than he could stand. He
roused himself, and shook himself, and began to
think, “ Well, these my present teachers are
very clever men, and well-meaning men too. I
see all that ; but, if their teaching is only to land
me here, why it was scarcely worth while going
through so much to get so little.”

Casting about still for guidance. Grey occur-
red to him. Grey was in residence as a bache-
lor, attending divinity lectures, and preparing
for ordination. He was still working hard at
the night-school, and Tom had been there once
or twice to help him when the curate was away.
In short, he was in very good books with Grey,
who had got the better of his shyness with him.
He saw that Tom was changed and sobered, and
in his heart hoped some day to wean him from
the pursuits of the body, to which he was still
fearfully addicted, and to bring him into the fold.
This hope was not altogether unfounded ; for.

notwithstanding the strong bias against them
which Tom had brought with him from school,
he was now at times much attracted by many of
the High-Church doctrines, and the men who
professed them. Such men as Grey he saw did
really believe something, and were in earnest
about carrying their beliefs into action. The
party might and did comprise many others of
the weakest sort, who believed and were in ear-
nest about nothing, but who liked to be peculiar.
Nevertheless, while he saw it laying hold of
many of the best men of his time, it is not to
be wondered at that he was drawn towards it.
Some help might lie in these men if he could
only get at it !

So he propounded his doubts and studies, and
their results, to Grey. But it was a failure.
Grey felt no difficulty, or very little, in the
whole matter ; but Tom found that it was be-
cause he believed the world to belong to the
devil. Laissez yhiVe,” “ buying cheap and
selling dear,” Grey held might be good enough
laws for the world — very probably were. The
laws of the Church were “self-sacrifice,” and
“ bearing one another’s burdens her children
should come out from the regions where the
world’s laws were acknowledged.

Tom listened, was dazzled at first, and thought
he was getting on the right track. But very
soon he found that Grey’s specific was not of the
least use to him. It was no good to tell him of
the rules of a society to which he felt that he
neither belonged nor wished to belong, for clear-
ly it could not be the Church of England. He
was an outsider ! Grey would probably admit
it to be so, if he asked him ! He had no long-
ing to be any thing else, if the Church meant an
exclusive body, which took no care of any but
its own people, and had nothing to say to the
great world in which he and most people had
to live, and buying and selling, and hiring
and working, had to go on. The close coi’pora-
tion might have very good laws, hut they were
nothing to him. What he wanted to know about
was the law which this great world — the devil’s
world, as Grey called it — was ruled by, or rather
ought to be ruled by. Perhaps, after all, Ben-
tham and the others, whose books he had been
reading, might be right ! At any rate, it was
clear that they had in their thoughts the same
world that he had — the world which included
himself and Harry Winburn, and all laborers,
and squires, and fai’mers. So he turned to them
again, not hopefully, but more inclined to listen
to them than he had been before he had spoken
to Grey.

Hardy was so fully occupied with college
lectures and private pupils, that Tom had scru-
ples about taking up much of his spare time in
the evenings. Nevertheless, as Grey had broken
down, and there was nobody else on whose judg-
ment he could rely who would listen to him,
whenever he had a chance he would propound
some of his puzzles to his old friend. In some
respects he got little help, for Hardy was almost
as much at sea as he himself on such subjects as

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

18r>

“value,” and “ wages,” and the “laws of sup-
ply and demand,” But there was an indomi-
table belief in him that all men’s intercourse with
one another, and not merely that of Churchmen,
must be founded on the principle of “ doing as
they would be done by,” and not on “buying
cheap and selling dear,” and that these never
would or could be reconciled with one another
or mean the same thing, twist them how you
would. This faith of his friend’s comforted
Tom greatly, and he was never tired of bringing
it out ; but at times he had his doubts whether
Grey might not be right — whether, after all, that
and the like maxims and principles were meant
to be the laws of the kingdoms of this world.
He wanted some corroborative evidence on the
subject from an impartial and competent witness,
and at last hit upon what he wanted. For, one
evening, on entering Hardy’s rooms, he found
him on the last pages of a book, which he shut
with an air of triumph on recognizing his visitor.
Taking it up he thrust it into Tom’s hands, and,
slapping him on the shoulder, said, “ There, my
boy, that’s what we want, or pretty near it, at
any rate. Now don’t say a word, but go back
to your rooms, and swallow it whole and digest
it, and then come back and tell me what you
think of it.”

“But I want to talk to you.”

“I can’t talk. I have spent the better part
of two days over that book, and have no end of
papers to look over. There ; get back to your
rooms, and do what I tell you, or sit down here
and hold your tongue,”

So Tom sat down and held his tongue, and
was soon deep in Carhde’s “Past and Present.”
How he did revel in it — in the humor, the pow-
er, the pathos, but, above all, in the root-and-
branch denunciations of many of the doctrines
in which he had been so lately voluntarily and
wearily chaining himself! The chains Avent
snapping off one after another, and, in his exul-
tation, he kept spouting out passage after passage
in a song of triumph ; “Enlightened egoism nev-
er so luminous is not the rule by which man’s
life can be led — laissez-faire, supply and demand,
cash payment for the sole nexus, and so forth,
were not, are not, and never will be, a practical
law of union for a society of men,” etc., etc.,
until Hardy fairly got up and turned him out,
and he retired with his new-found treasure to
his OAvn rooms.

He had scarcely ever in his life been so moved
by a book before. He laughed over it, and cried
over it, and began half a dozen letters to the
author to thank him, which he fortunately tore
up. He almost forgot Mary for several hours
during his first enthusiasm. He had no notion
how he had been mastered and oppressed be-
fore. He felt as the crew of a small fishing-
smack, who are being towed away by an enemy’s
cruiser, might feel on seeing a frigate with the
Union -jack flying, bearing down and opening
fire on their captor ; or as a small boy at school,""
who is being fagged against rules by the right of
the strongest, feels when he sees his big brother

coming round the corner. The help which he
had found was just what he wanted. Tlicre was
no narrowing of the ground here — no appeal to
men as members of any exclusive body whatev-
er to separate themselves and come out of the
devil’s world ; but to men as men, to every man
as a man — to the weakest and meanest, as well
as to the strongest and most noble — telling them
that the world is God’s world, tliat every one
of them has a work in it, and bidding them find
their work and set about it.

The strong tinge of sadness which ran througli
the whole book, and its unsparing denunciations
of the established order of things, suited his
own unsettled and restless frame of mind. So
he gave himself up to his new bondage, and re-
joiced in it, as though he had found at last Avhat
he was seeking for ; and, by the time that long
vacation came round again, to Avhich we are
compelled to hurry him, he was filled full of a
set of contradictory notions and beliefs, which
were destined to astonish and perplex the mind
of that worthy J. P. for the county of Berks,
Brown the elder, whatever other effect they
might have on society at large.

Readers must not suppose, howe\'er, that our
hero had given up his old pursuits ; on the con-
trary, he continued to boat, and cricket, and
spar with as much vigor as ever. His per-
plexities only made him a little more silent at
his pastimes than he used to be. But as we
have already seen him thus employed, and
know the ways of the animal in such matters, it
is needless to repeat. What we want to do is
to follow him into new fields of thought and
action, and mark, if it may be, how he develops,
and gets himself educated in one way and an-
other ; and this plunge into the great sea of so-
cial, political, and economical questions is the
noticeable fact (so far as any is noticeable) of
his second year’s residence.

During the year he had only very meagre
accounts of matters at Englebourn. Katie, in-
deed, had come round sufficiently to Avrite to
him; but she scarcely alluded to her cousin.
He only knoAV that Mary had come out in Lon-
don, and Avas much admired ; and that the Por-
ters had not taken Barton again, but Avere going
abroad for the autumn and Avinter. The ac-
counts of Harry Avere bad ; he Avas still liAung at
Daddy Collins’s, nobody knew how, and Avork-
ing gang-Avork occasionally Avith the outlaAvs of
the heath.

The only fact of importance in the neighbor-
hood had been the death of Squire Wurley,
Avhicli happened suddenly in the spring. A
distant cousin had succeeded him, a young man
of Tom’s own age.

He Avas also in residence at Oxford, and Tom
knew him. They were not very congenial ; so
he Avas much astonished Avhen young Wurley,
on his return to college, after his relatiA'e’s fu-
neral, rather sought him out, and seemed to
Avish to knoAv more of him. The end of it Avas
an inAutation to Tom to come to the Grange,
and spend a Aveek or so at the beginning of the

18G

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

long vacation. There was to be a party there |
of Oxford men exclusively, and they meant to
enjoy themselves thoroughly, Wurley said.

Tom felt much embarrassed how to act, and,
after some hesitation, told his inviter of his last
visit to the mansion in question, thinking that
a knowledge of the circumstances might change
his mind. But he found that young Wurley
knew the facts already ; and, in fact, he couldn’t
help suspecting that his quarrel with the late
owner had something to say to his present invi-
tation. However, it did not lie in his mouth to
be curious on the subject ; and so he accepted
the invitation gladly, much delighted at the no-
tion of beginning his vacation so near Engle-
bourn, and having the run of the Grange fish-
ing, which was justly celebrated.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE KIVEK SIDE.

So, from Henley, Tom went home just to see
his father and mother and pick up his fishing-
gear, and then started for the Grange. On his
road thither he more than once almost made
up his mind to go round by Englebourn, get his
first interview with Katie over, and find out how
the world was really going with Harry and his
sweetheart, of whom he had had such meagre
intelligence of late. But, for some reason or
another, when it came to taking the turn to
Englebourn, he passed it by, and, contenting
himself for the time- with a distant view of the
village and the Hawk’s Lynch, drove straight
to the Grange.

He had not expected to feel very comfortable
at first in the house which he had left the pre-
vious autumn in so strange a manner, and he
was not disappointed. The rooms reminded
him unpleasantly of his passage of arms with
the late master, and the grave and portly butler
was somewhat embarrassed in his reception of
him; while the footman, who carried off his
portmanteau, did it with a grin which put him
out. The set of men whom he found there
were not of his sort. They were young Lon-
doners, and he a thorough countryman. But
the sight of the stream, by which he took a
hasty stroll before dinner, made up for every
thing, and filled him with pleasurable anticipa-
tions. He thought he had never seen a sweeter
bit of water.

The dinner to which the party of young gen-
tlemen sat down was most undeniable. The
host talked a little too much, perhaps, under all
the circumstances, of my wine, my plate, my mut-
ton, etc., provoking the thought of how long
they had been his. But he was bent on hospi-
tality after his fashion, and his guests were not
disposed to criticise much.

The old butler did not condescend to wait,
but brought in a magnum of claret after dinner,
carefull}'^ nursing it ns if it were a baby, and
placing it patronizingly before his young master.

Before they adjourned to the billiard-room they
had disposed of several of the same ; but the fol-
lowers were brought in by a footman, the butler
being employed in discu'ssing a bottle of an older
vintage with the steward in the still-room. Then
came pool, pool, pool, soda-water and brandy,
and cigars, into the short hours ; but Tom stole
away early, having an eye to his morning’s fish-
ing, and not feeling much at home with his com-
panions.

He was out soon after sunrise the next
morning. He never wanted to be called when
there was a trout-stream within reach ; and his
fishing instinct told him that, in these sultry
dog-days, there would be little chance of sport
when the sun was well up. So he let himself
gently out of the hall door — paused a moment
on the steps to fill his chest with the fresh morn-
ing air, as he glanced at the weather-cock over
the stables — and then set to work to put bis
tackle together on the lawn, humming a tune
to himself as he selected an insinuating red
hackle and alder-fly from his well-worn book
and tied them on to his cast. Then he slung
his creel over his shoulder, picked up his rod,
and started for the water.

As he passed the gates of the stable-yard the
keeper came out — a sturdy bullet-headed fellow
in a velveteen coat, and cord breeches and gai-
ters— and touched his hat. Tom returned the
salute, and wished him good-morning.

“ Homin’, sir ; you be about early.”

“Yes; I reckon it’s the best time for sport
at the end of June.”

“ ’Tis so, sir. Shall I fetch a net, and come
along ?”

“ No, thank you. I’ll manage the ladle my-
self. But which do you call the best water ?”
“They be both middling good. There ain’t
much odds atwixt em. But I sees most fish
movin’ o’ mornins in the deep water down be-
low.”

“ I don’t know ; the night was too hot,” said
Tom, who had examined the water the day be-
fore, and made up his mind where he was go-
ing. “ I’m for deep water on cold days ; I
shall begin with the stickles up above. There’s
a good head of water on, I suppose ?”

“Plenty down this last week, sir?”

“ Come along, then ; we’ll walk together, if
you’re going that way.” So Tom stepped off,
brushing through the .steaming long grass,
gemmed with wild flowers, followed by the
keeper; and, as the grasshoppers bounded
chirruping out of his way, and the insect life
hummed and murmured, and the lark rose and
sang above his head, he felt happier than he
had done for many a long month. So his
heart opened towards his companion, who kept
a little behind him.

“What size do you take ’em out, keeper ?”
“Any thing over nine inches, sir. But
there’s a smartish few fish of three pounds for
them as can catch ’em.”

“Well, that’s good; but they ain’t easy
caught, eh ?”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

187

“ I don’t rightly know, sir ; but there’s gents
comes as stands close by the water, and flogs
down stream with the sun in their backs, and
uses all manner o’ vlies, wi’ long names ; and
then thay gwoes away, and says, ’tain’t no use
flying here, ’cos there’s so much cadis bait and
that like.”

“ Ah, very likely,” said Tom, with a chuckle.

“The chaps as catches the big fishes, sir,”
went on the keeper, getting confidential, “is
thay cussed night-line poachers. There’s one
o’ thay as has come here this last spring-tide —
the artfullest chap as ever I come across, and
down to every move on the board. He don’t
use no shove-nets, nor such-like tackle, not he ;
I s’poso he don’t call that sport. Besides, I got
master to stake the whole water, and set old
knives and razors about in the holes, so that
don’t answer ; and this joker alius goes alone
— which, in course, he couldn’t do with nets.
Now I knows within five or six yards where
that chap sets his lines, and I finds ’em, now
and again, set the artfullest you ever see. But
’twould take a man’s life to look arter him, and
I knows he gets, may be, a dozen big fish a
week, do all as I knows.”

“How is it you can’t catch him, keeper?”
said Tom, much amused.

“Why, you see, sir, he don’t come at any
hours. Drat un!” said the keeper, getting
hot; “blessed if I don’t think he sometimes
comes down among the haymakers and folk at
noon, and up lines and off, while thay chaps
does nothing but snigger at un. All I knows is,
as I’ve watched till midnight, and then on
again at dawn for’n, and no good come on it
blit once.”

“ How was that ?”

“Well, one mornin’, sir, about last Lady-
day, I comes quite quiet up stream about dawn.
When I get’s to Farmer Giles’s piece (that little
rough bit, sir, as you sees t’other side the stream,
two fields from our outside bounds), I sees un
a stooping down and- hauling in’s line. ‘ Now’s
your time, Billy,’ says I, and up the hedge I
cuts, hot foot, to get betwixt he and our bounds.
Wether he seen me or not, I can’t mind ; least-
ways, .when I up’s head t’other side the hedge,
vorrights where I seen him last, there was he
a-trotting up stream quite cool, a-pocketing a
two-pounder. Then he sees me, and away we
goes side by side for the bounds — he this side
the hedge and I t’other ; he takin’ the fences
like our old greyhound-bitch, Clara. We takes
the last fence on to that fuzzy field as you sees
there, sir (parson’s glebe, and out of our lib-
erty), neck and neck, and I turns short to the
left, ’cos there warn’t no fence now betwixt he
and I. Well, I thought he’d a dodged on
about the fuz. Not he ; he slouches his hat
over’s eyes, and stands quite cool by fust fuz-
bush — I minded then as we was out o’ our beat.
Hows’ ever, my blood was up ; so I at’s him
then and there, no words lost, and fetches a
crack at’s head wi’ my stick. He fends wi’
his’n ; and then, as I rushes in to collar’n.

dash’d if ’e didn’t meet I full, and catch I by
the thigh and collar, and send I slap over’s
head into a fuz-bush. Then he cliuckles fit to
bust hisself, and cuts his stick, while I creeps
out full o’ prickles, and wi’ my breeches tore
shameful. Dangun!” cried the keeper, while
Tom roai'ed, “he’s alissum wosbird, that I ’ool
say, but I’ll be up sides wi’ he next time I sees
un. Whorson fool as I was, not to stop and
look at’n and speak to un ! Then I should ha’
know’d’n again ; and now he med be our par-
ish clerk for all as I knows.”

“And you’ve never met him since ?”

“ Never sot eye on un, sir, arly or late — wish-
es I had.”

“ Well, keeper, here’s half a crown to go to-
wards mending the hole in your breeches, and
better luck at the return match. I shall begin
fishing here.”

“ Thank’ee, sir. You keep your cast pretty
nigh that there off bank, and you med have a
rare good un ther’. I seen a fish suck there
just now as warn’t spawned this year, nor last
nether.”

And away went the communicative keeper.

“ Stanch fellow, the keeper,” said Tom to
himself, as he reeled out yard after yard of his
tapered line, and with a gentle sweep dropped
his collar of flies lightly on the water, each cast
covering another five feet of the dimpling sur-
face. “ Good fellow, the keeper — don’t mind
telling a story against himself — can stand being
laughed at— more than his master can. Ah !
there’s the fish he saw sucking. I’ll be bound.
Now, you beauties, over his nose, and fall light
— don’t disgrace your bringing up ! ” and away
went the flies quivering through the air and
lighting close to the opposite bank, under a
bunch of rushes. A slight round eddy follow-
ed below the rushes as the cast came gently
back across the current.

“Ah! you see them, do you, old boy?”
thought Tom. “Say your prayers, then, and
get shrived 1” and away went the flies again,
this time a little below. No movement. The
third throw, a great lunge and splash, and the
next moment the lithe rod bent double, and the
gut collar spun along, cutting through the wa-
ter like mad. Up goes the great fish twice into
the air, Tom giving him the point ; then up
stream again, Tom giving him the butt, and be-
ginning to reel up gently. Down goes the great
fish into the swaying weeds, working with his
tail like a twelve-horse screw. “ If I can only
get my nose to ground,” thinks he. So thinks
Tom, and trusts to his tackle, keeping a steady
strain on trouty, and creeping gently down
stream. “No go,” says the fish, as he feels his
nose steadily hauled round, and turns with a
swirl down stream. Away goes Tom, reeling
in ; and away goes the fish in hopes of a slack
— away, for twenty or thirty yards — the fish
coming to the top lazily, now and again, and
holding on to get his second wind. Now a cart-
track crossed the stream, no weeds, and shallow
water at the side. “ Here we must have it out,”

188

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD,

thinks Tom, and turns fish’s nose up stream
again. The big fish gets sulky, twice drifts to-
wards the shallow, and twice plunges away at
the sight of his enemy into the deep water.
The third time he comes swaying in, his yellow
side gleaming and his mouth open ; and the
next moment Tom scoops him out on the grass,
with a “whoop ” that might have been heard at
the house.

“ Two-pounder, if he’s an ounce,” says Tom,
as he gives him the coup de grace, and lays him
out lovingly on the fresh green sward.

Who among you, dear readers, can appreciate
the intense delight of grassing your first big fish
after a nine month’s fast ? All first sensations'
have their special pleasure ; but none can be
named, in a small way, to beat this of the first
fish of the season. The first clean leg-hit for
four in your first match at Lord’s — the grating
of the bows of your racing-boat against the stern
of the boat ahead in your first race — the first
half-mile of a burst from the cover side in No-
vember, when the hounds in the field ahead may
be covered with a table-cloth, and no one but
the huntsman and a top sawyer or two lies be-
tween you and them — the first brief after your
call to the bar, if it comes within the year — the
sensations produced by these are the same in
kind ; but cricket, boating, getting briefs, even
hunting, lose their edge as time goes on. As
to lady readers, it is impossible, probably, to give
them an idea of the sensation in question. Per-
haps some may have experienced something of
the kind at their first balls, when they heard
whisper's and saw all eyes turning their way,
and knew that their dresses and gloves fitted
perfectly. But this joy can be felt but once in
a life, and the first fish comes back as fresh as
ever, or ought to come, if all men had their
rights, once in a season. So, good luck to the
gentle craft and its professors, and may the Fates
send us much into their company ! The trout-
fisher, like the landscape-painter, haunts the
loveliest places of the earth, and haunts them
alone. Solitude, nature, and his own thoughts
— he must be on the best terms with all of these ;
and he who can take kindly the largest allow-
ance of these is likely to be the kindliest and
truest with his fellow-men.

Tom had splendid sport that summer morn-
ing. As the great sun rose higher, the light
morning breeze, which had curled the water,
died away ; the light mist drew up into light
cloud, and the light cloud vanished, into cloud-
land, for any thing I know ;and still the fish rose,
strange to say, though Tom felt it was an affair
of minutes, an4 acted accordingly. At eight
o’clock he was about a quarter of a mile from
the house, at a point in the stream of rare
charms both for the angler and the lover of gen-
tle river beauty. The main stream was crossed
by a lock, formed of a solid brick bridge with no
parapets, under which the water rushed through
four small arches, each of which could be closed
in an instant by letting down a heavy wooden
lock-gate, fitted in grooves on the upper side of

the bridge. Such locks are frequent in the west-
country streams — even at long distances from
mills and millers, for whose behoof they were
made in old days, that the supply of water to
the mill might be easily regulated. All pious
anglers should bless the memories of the old
builders of them, for they are the very paradises
of the great trout who frequent the old brick-
work and timber foundations. The water, in
its rush through the arches, had of course
worked for itself a deep hole, and then, some
twenty yards below, spread itself out in wanton,
joyous ripples and eddies over a broad surface
some fifty yards across, and dashed away to-
wards a little island some two hundred yards
below, or rolled itself slowly back towards the
bridge again, up the back'water by the side of
the bank, as if longing for another merry rush
through one of those narrow arches. The isl-
and below was crorvned with splendid alders,
willows forty feet high, which wept into the
water, and two or three poplars ; a rich mile of
water meadow, with an occasional willow or al-
der, lay gleaming beyond ; and the view was
bounded by a glorious wood, which crowned the
gentle slope, at the foot of which the river ran.
Another considerable body of water which had
been carried off above from the main stream to
flush the water meadows, rejoined its parent at
this point ; it came slowly down a broad artificial
ditch running parallel with the main stream ;
and the narrow strip of land which divided
the two streams ended abruptly just below the
lock, forming a splendid point for bather or an-
gler. Tom had fixed on this pool as his bonne
bouche, as a child keeps its plums till the last,
and stole over the bridge, stooping low to gain
the point above indicated. Having gained it,
he glanced round to be aware of the dwarf ash-
trees and willows which were scattered along
the strip and might catch heedless collars and
spoil sport, when, lying lazily almost on the
surface where the back-water met the stream
from the meadows, he beheld the great grand-
father of all trout — a fellow two feet long and a
foot in girth at the shoulders, just moving fin
enough to keep him from turning over on to his
back. He threw himself flat on the ground and
crept away to the other side of the strip. The
king-fish had not seen him ; and the next mo-
ment Tom saw him sucking a bee, laden with
his morning’s load of honey, who touched the
water unwarily close to his nose. With a trem-
bling hand, Tom took otfhis tail fly, and, on his
knees, substituted a governor ; then, shortening
his line after wetting his mimic bee in tlie pool
behind him, tossed it gently into the monster’s
very jaws. For a moment the fish seemed
scared, but the next, conscious in his strength,
lifted his nose slowly to the surface and sucked
in the bait.

Tom struck gently, and then sprang to his
feet. But the heavens had other work for the
king-fish, who dived swiftly under the bank ; a
slight jar followed, and Tom’s rod was straight
over his head, the line and scarce a yard of his

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

189

trusty gut collar dangling about his face. He
seized this remnant with horror and unsatisfied
longing, and examined it with care. Could he
have overlooked any fraying which the gut
might have got in the morning’s work ? No ;
he had gone over every inch of it not five min-
utes before, as he neared the pool. Besides, it
was cut clean through, not a trace of bruise or
fray about it. How could it have happened ?
He went to the spot and looked into the water ;
it was slightly discolored, and he could not see
the bottom. He threw his fishing-coat off,
rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, and, ly-
ing on his side, felt about the bank and tried to
reach the bottom, but couldn’t. So, hearing
the half-hour bell ring, he deferred further in-
quiry, and stripped in silent disgust for a plunge
in the pool. Three times he hurled himself
into the delicious rush of the cold chalk stream,
with that utter abandon in which man, whose
bones are brittle, can only indulge when there
are six or seven feet of water between him and
mother earth ; and, lotting the stream bear him
away at its own sweet will to the shallows be-
low, struck up again through the rush and the
roar to his plunging-place. Then, slowly and
luxuriously dressing, he lit his short pipe — com-
panion of meditation — and began to ruminate
on the escape of the king- fish. What could
have cut his collar ? The more he thought the
less he could make it out. When suddenly he
was aware of the keeper on his way back to the
house for orders and breakfast.

“What sport, sir?”

“Pretty fair,” said Tom, carelessly, lugging
five plump speckled fellows, weighing some
seven and a half pounds, out of his creel, and
laying them out for the keeper’s inspection.

“Well, they be in prime order, sir, surely,”
says the keeper, handling them; “they alius
gets mortal thick across the shoulders while the
May-fly be on. Lose any, sir?”

“I put in some little ones up above, and lost
one screamer just up the back ditch there. He
must have been a four-pounder, and went off,
and be hanged to him, with two yards of my
collar and a t^ouple of first-rate flies. How on
earth he got oif I can’t tell!” and he went on
to unfold the particulars of the short struggle.

The keeper could hardly keep down a grin.
“Ah! sir,” said he, “I thinks I knows Avhat
spwiled your sport. You owes it all to that
chap as I was a-telling you of, or my name’s
not Willum Goddard;” and then, fishing the
lock-pole with a hook at the end of it out of the
rushes, he began groping under the bank, and
presently hauled up a sort of infernal machine,
consisting of a heavy lump of wood, a yard or
so long, in which were carefully inserted the
blades of four or five old knives and razors,
while a crop of rusty jagged nails filled up the
spare space.

Tom looked at it in wonder, “What devil’s
work have you got hold of there ?” he said at
last.

“Bless you, sir,” said the keeper, “ ’tis only

our shove-net traps as I were a-tclling you of.
I keeps hard upon a dozen on ’em, and shifts
’em about in the likeliest holes ; and I takes
care to let the men as is about the water mead-
ows sec me a-sharpening on ’em up a bit wi’ a
file now and again. And, since master gev me
orders to put ’em in, I don’t think they tries
that game on not once a month.”

“Well, but w'here do you and your master
expect to go to, if you set such things as those
about?” said Tom, looking serious. “Why,
you’ll be cutting some fellow’s hand or foot half
off, one of these daj^s. Suppose I’d waded up
the bank to see what had become of my cast?”

“Lor, sir, I never thought o’ that,” said the
keeper, looking sheepish, and lifting the back
of his short hat off his head to make room for a
scratch ; “but,” added he, turning the subject,
“if you wants to keep thay artful wosbirds ofit
the water, you must frighten ’em wd’ summat
out o’ the way. Drattle ’em ! I knows they
puts me to my wits’-end ; but you’d never ’a
had five such fish as them afore breakfast, sir,
if we didn’t stake the waters.”

“ Well, and I don’t want ’em if I can’t get
’em without. I’ll tell j’ou what it is, keeper,
this razor business is going a bit too far; men
ain’t to be maimed for liking a bit of sport.
You set spring-guns in the woods, and you
know what that came to. Wh}- don’t you, or
one of your watchers, stop out here at night and
catcli the fellows, like men ?”

“Why, you see, sir, master don’t allow me
but one watcher, and he’s mortal feared o’ the
water, he be, specially o’ nights. He’d sooner
by half stop up in the woods. Daddy Collins
(that’s an old woman as lives on the heath, sir,
and a bad sort she be, too), well, she told he
once, when he wouldn’t gee her some bacchy as
he’d got, and she’d a mind to, as he’d fall twdee
into the water for once he’d get out; and th’
poor chap ever since can’t think but wliat he’ll
be drownded. And there’s queer sights and
sounds by the river o’ nights, too, I ’ool say,
sir, let alone the white mist, as makes every
thing look unket, and gives a chap the rheu-
matics.”

“Well, but you ain’t afraid of ghosts and
rheumatism ?”

“No, I don’t know as I be, sir. But then
there’s the pheasants a-breedin’, and there’s
four brood of flappers in the withey bed, and a
sight of young hares in the spinneys. I be hard
put to to mind it all.”

“I dare say you are,” said Tom, putting on
his coat, and shouldering his rod ; “ I’ve a good
mind to take a turn at it myself, to help you,
if you’ll only drop those razors.”

“I wishes you w'ould sir,” said the keeper,
from behind ; “if gentl’men ’d sometimes take
a watch at nights, they’d find out as keepers
hadn’t all fair-w^eather work. I’ll warrant, if
they’re to keep a good head o’ game about a
place. ’Taint all popping off guns, and lunch-
ing under hay-ricks, I can tell ’em — no, nor half
on it.”

190

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

“ Where do you think, now, this fellow we
were talking of sells his fish ?” said Tom, after
a minute’s thought.

“ Mostly at Reading Market, I hears tell, sir.
There’s the guard of the mail, as goes by the
cross-roads three days a w'eek, he wur a rare
poaching chap hisself down in the west afore he
got his place along of his bugle-playing. They
do say as he’s open to any game, he is, from a
buck to a snipe, and drives a trade all down the
road with the country chaps.”

“ What day is Reading Market ?”

“Tuesdays and Saturdays, sir.”

“And what time does the mail go by ?”

“ Six o’clock in the morning, sir, at the cross-
roads.”

“And they’re three miles off, across the
fields?”

“Thereabouts, sir. I reckons it about a
forty-minutes’ stretch, and no time lost.”

“‘There’ll be no more big fish caught on the
fly to-day,” said Tom, after a minute’s silence,
as they neared the house.

The wind had fallen dead, and not a spot of
cloud in the sky.

“Not afore nightfall, I think, sir;” and the
keeper disappeared towards the offices.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE XIGHT-WATCH.

“You may do as you please, but I’m going to
see it out.”

“No, but I say, do come along ; that’s a good
fellow.”

“Not I; why, we’ve only just come out.
Didn’t you hear? Wurley dared me to do a
night’s watching, and I said I meant to do it.”
“Yes; so did I. But we can change our
minds. What’s the good of having a mind if
you can’t change it ! Ai devrspai ttcjc <ppovri6eg
co(j)0}TEpaL — isn’t that good Greek and good
sense ?”

“I don’t see it. They’ll only laugh and
sneer if we go back now.”

“They’ll laugh at us twice as much if we
don’t. Fancy ! they’re just beginning pool
now on that stunning table. Come along.
Brown ; don’t miss your chance. We shall be
sure to divide the pools, as we’ve missed the
claret. Cool hands and cool heads, you know !
Green on brown, pink your player in hand!
That’s a good deal pleasanter than squatting
here all night on the damp grass.”

“Very likely.”

“But you won’t? Now do be reasonable.
Will you come if I stop with you another half
hour ?”

“No.”

“ An hour, then ? Say till ten o’clock ?”

“If I went at all, I w'ould go at once.”

“ Then you won’t come ?”

“No.”

“ I’ll bet you a sovereign yon never see a

poacher, and then how sold you will be in the
morning ! It will be much worse coming in to
breakfast with empty hands and a cold in the
head than going in now. They will chaff
then, I grant you.”

“ Well, then, they may chaff and be hanged,
for I shan’t go in now.”

Tom’s interlocutor put his hands in the pock-
ets of his heather mixture shooting-coat, and
took a turn or two of some dozen yards, back-
ward and forward, above the place where our
hero was sitting. He didn’t like going in and
facing the pool - players by himself ; so he
stopped once more and re-opened the conver-
sation.

“What do you want to do by watching all
night, Brown ?”

“To show the keeper and those fellows in-
doors that I mean what I say. I said I’d do
it, and I will.”

“You don’t want to catch a poacher, then?”
“I don’t much care; I’ll catch one if he
comes in my way — or try it on, at any rate.”

“I say, I3rown, I like that; as if you don’t
poach yourself. Why, I rein ember when the
Whiteham keeper spent the best part of a week
outside the college gates on the look-out for you
and Drysdale and some other fellows.”

“ What has that to do with it?”

“Why, you ought to have more fellow-feel-
ing. I suppose you go on the principle of set
a thief to catch a thief?”

Tom made no answer, and his companion
went on :

“Come along now, like a good fellow. If
you’ll come in now, we can come out again all
fresh, when the rest go to bed.”

“Not we. I shan’t go in. But you can
come out again, if you like ; you’ll find me
hereabouts.”

The man in the heather mixture had now shot
his last bolt, and took himself off to the house,
leaving Tom by the river-side. How they got
there may be told in a few words. After bis
morning’s fishing, and conversation with the
keeper, he had gone in full of his subject, and
propounded it at the breakfast-table. His
strictures on the knife and razor business pro-
duced a rather w'arm discussion, which merged
in the question whether a keeper’s life was a
hard one, till something was said implying
that Wurley’s men were over-worked. The
master took this in high dudgeon, and words
ran nigh. In the discussion Tom remarked
{apropos of night-work) that he would never
ask another man to do what he would not do
himself ; which sentiment w'as indorsed by,
among others, the man in the heather mixture.
The host had retorted that they had better, in
tliat case, try it themselves ; which remark had
the effect of making Tom resolve to cut short
his visit, and in the mean time had brought
him and his ally to the river-side on the night
in question.

The first hour, as we have seen, had been
enough for the ally; and so Tom was left in

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

191

company with a plaid, a stick, and a pipe, to
spepd the night by liimself.

It was by no means the first night he had
spent in the open air, and promised to be a
pleasant one for camping out. It was almost
the longest day in the year, and the weather
was magnificent. There was yet an hour of
daylight, and the place he had chosen was just
the right one for enjoying the evening.

He was sitting under one of a clump of huge
old alders, growing, on the thin strip of land al-
ready noticed, which divided the main stream
from the deep artificial ditch which fed the wa-
ter-meadows. On his left the emerald-green
meadows stretched away till they met the in-
closed corn-land. On his right ran the main
stream, some fifty feet in breadth at this point ;
on the opposite side of which was a rough piece
of ground, half withey-bed, half copse, with a
rank growth of rushes at the Avater’s edge.
These were the chosen haunts of the moor-hen
and water-rat, whose tracks could be seen by
dozens, like small open door-ways, looking out
on to the river, through Avhich ran mysterious
little paths into the rush-wilderness beyond.

The sun was now going down behind the
copse, through which his beams came aslant,
checkered and mellow. The stream ran dimp-
ling doAvn by him, sleepily stvaying the masses
of weed, under the surface and on the surface ;
and the trout rose under the banks, as some
moth or gnat or gleaming beetle fell into the
stream ; here and there one more frolicsome
than his brethren Avould throw himself joyously
into the air. The swifts rushed close by him,
in companies of five or six, and wheeled, and
screamed, and dashed atvay again, skimming
along the water, baffling his eyes as he tried to
follow their flight. Two kingfishers shot sud-
denly up on to their supper station, on a stunted
willow stump, some twenty yards below him,
and sat there in the glory of their blue backs
and cloudy red waistcoats, watching with long
sagacious beaks pointed to the Avater beneath,
and every noAV and then drop])ing like flashes of
light into the stream and rising again, Avith
what seemed one motion, to their perches. A
heron or tAvo Avere fishing about the meadoAvs ;
and he Avatched them stalking about in their
sober quaker coats, or rising on slow heavy Aving,
and lumbering away home Avith a Aveird cry.
He heard the strong pinions of the Avood-pigeon
in the air, and then from the trees above his
head came the soft call, “ Take-tAvo-coAv-Taffy,
take-two-cow-Taffy,” with Avhich that fair and
false bird is said to have beguiled the hapless
Welshman to the gallows. Presently, as he lay
motionless, the timid and graceful little Avater-
hens peered out from their doors in the rushes
opposite, and, seeing no cause for fear, stepped
daintily into the Avater, and Avere suddenly sur-
rounded by little bundles of black soft doAvn,
Avhich went paddling about in and out of the
weeds, encouraged by the occasional sharp, clear,
parental “keck — keck,” and merry little dab-
chicks popped up in mid-stream, and looked

round and nodded at him, port and voiceless,
and dived again ; even old cunning Avater-rats
sat up on the bank Avith round black noses and
gleaming eyes, or took solemn SAvims out, and
turned up their tails, and disappeared for his
amusement. A comfortable low came at inter-
vals from the cattle, rCA-elling in the abundant
herbage. All living things seemed to be disport-
ing themseh-es, and enjoying, after their kind,
the last gleams of the sun-set, Avhich Avere mak-
ing the Avhole vault of heaven gloAv and shim-
mer ; and, as he Avatched them, Tom blessed his
stars as he contrasted the river-side Avith the glare
of lamps and the click of balls in the noisy pool-
room.

Before it got dark ho bethought him of mak-
ing sure of his position once more ; matters
might haA^e changed since he chose it before din-
ner. With all that he could extract from the
keeper, and his OAvn experience in such matters,
it had taken him several hours’ hunting up and
doAvn the river that afternoon before he had hit
on a night-line. But he had persevered, knoAv-
ing that this Avas the only safe evidence to start
from, and at last had found several, so cunning-
ly set that it Avas clear that it Avas a first-rate
artist in the poaching lino against Avhom he had
pitted himself. These lines must have been
laid almost under his nose on that very day, as
the freshness of the baits proved. The one
which he had selected to AA^atch by Avas under the
bank, Avithin a fcAv yards of the clump of alders
Avhere he Avas noAV sitting. There Avas no satis-
factory cover near the others ; so he had chosen
this one, Avhere he would be perfectly concealed
behind the nearest trunk from any person Avho
might come in due time to take up the line.
With this vieAv, then, he got up, and, stepping
carefully on the thickest grass where his foot
Avould leave no mark, Avent to the bank, and felt
Avith the hook of his stick after the line. It Avas
all right, and he returned to his old seat.

And then the summer tAvilight came on, and
the birds disappeared, and the hush of night set-
tled doAvn on river, and copse, and meadoAV — cool
and gentle summer tAvilight after the hot bright
day. He Avelcomed it, too, as it folded up the
landscape, and the trees lost their outline, and
settled into soft black masses rising here and
there out of the white mist, AA'hich seemed to
have crept up to Avithin a fcAV yards all round
him unaAvares. There Avas no sound now but
the gentle murmur of the Avater, and an occa-
sional rustle of reeds, or of the leaves over his
head, as a sti’ay Avandering puff of air passed
through them on its Avay home to bed. Nothing
to listen to, and nothing to look at ; for the
moon had notrisen, and the light mist hid ev'cry
thing except a star or tAVO right up above him.
So, the outside world having left him for the
present, he Avas turned inAvard on himself.

This Avas all very Avell at first ; and he Avrap-
ped the plaid round his shoulders and leaned
against his tree, and indulged in a little self-
gratulation. There Avas something of strange-
ness and adA'enture in his solitary ni^t-Avatcli,

192

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

which had its charm for a youngster of twenty-
one ; and the consciousness of not running from
his word, of doing what he had said he would
do, while others shirked and broke down, was
decidedly pleasant.

But this satisfaction did not last very long,
and the night began to get a little wearisome,
and too cool to be quite comfortable. By de-
grees doubts as to the wisdom of liis self-im-
posed task crept into his head. He dismissed
them for a time by turning his thoughts to other
matters. The neighborhood of Englebourn,
some two miles up above him, reminded him of
the previous summer ; and he wondered how he
should get on with his cousin Avhen they met.
He should probably see her the next day, for he
would lose no time in calling. Would she re-
ceive him well? Would she have much to tell
him about Mary ?

He had been more hopeful on this subject of
late, but the loneliness, the utter solitude and si-
lence of his position, as he sat there in the misty
night, away from all human habitations, was not
favorable, somehow, to hopefulness. He found
himself getting dreary and sombre in heart —
more and more so as the minutes rolled on, and
the silence and loneliness pressed on him more
and more heavily. He was surprised at his
down-heartedness, and tried to remember how
he had spent former nights so pleasantly out of
doors. Ah ! he had always had a companion
within call, and sometliing to do — cray fishing,
bat fowling, or something of the kind ! Sitting
there doing nothing, he fancied, must make it
so heavy to-night. By a strong efibrt of will
he shook off the oppression. He moved, and
liummed a tune to break the silence ; he got
up and walked up and down, lest it should again
master him. If wind, storm, pouring rain, any
thing to make sound or movement, would but
come !

But neither of them came, and there was lit-
tle help in sound or movement made by himself.
Besides, it occurred to him that much walking
up and down might defeat the object of his watch.
No one would come near while he was on the
move ; and he was probably making marks al-
ready which might catch the eye of the setter
of the night-lines at some distance if that cun-
ning party waited for the morning light, and
might keep him away from the place altogether.

So he sat down again on his old seat, and
leaned hard against the alder trunk, as though
to steady himself, and keep all troublesome
thoughts well in front of him. In this attitude
of defense he reasoned with himself on the ab-
surdity of allowing himself to be depressed by
the mere accidents of place, and darkness, and
silence ; but all the reasoning at his command
didn’t alter the. fact. He felt the enemy ad-
vancing again, and, casting about for help, fell
back on the thought that he was going through
a task, holding to his word, doing what he had
said he would do ; and this brought him some re-
lief for the moment. He fixed his mind steadi-
ly on thi^ task of his ; but, alas ! here again, in

his very last stronghold, the enemy began to
turn his flank, and the position every minute
became more and more untenable.

He had of late fallen into a pestilent habit
of cross-questioning himself on any thing which
he was about — setting up himself like a cock
at Shrovetide, and pelting himself with inexora-
ble “whys?” and “ wherefores ?” A pestilent
habit truly he had found it, and one which left
a man no peace of his life — a relentless, sleep-
less habit, always ready to take advantage of
him, but never so viciously alert, that he re-
membered, as on this night.

And so this questioning self, which would
never be denied for long, began to examine him
as to his proposed night’s work. This precious
task which he was so proud of going through
with, on the score of which he had been in his
heart crowing over others, because they had not
taken it on them, or had let it drop, what then
was the meaning of it ?

“What was he out there for? What had he
come out to do ?” They were awkward ques-
tions. He tried several answers, and was driven
from one to another till he w'as bound to admit
that he was out there that night partly out of
pique and partly out of pride ; and that his ob-
ject (next to earning the pleasure of thinking
himself a better man than his neighbors) was,
if so be, to catch a iioacher. “To catch a poach-
er ? What business had he to be catching poach-
ers ? If all poachers wei'e to be caught, he would
have to be caught himself.” He had just had
an unpleasant reminder of this fact from him
of the heather mixtures — a Parthian remark
which he had thrown over his shoulder as he
went off, and which had stuck. “But then,”
Tom argued, “it was a very different thing, his
poaching — going out for a day’s lark after game,
which he didn’t care a straw for, but only for the
spoi't — and that of men making a trade of it, like
the man the keeper spoke of.” “ Why ? How
different ? If there were any difference, was it
one in his favor ?” Avoiding this suggestion,
he took up new ground. “Poachers were al-
ways the greatest blackguards in their neigh-
borhoods, pests of society, and ought to be put
down.” “Possibly — at any rate, he had been
one of the fraternity in his time, and was scarce-
ly tlie man to be casting stones at them.” “But
his poaching had always been done thoughtless-
ly.” “How did he know that others liad worse
motives ?”

And so he w'cnt on, tossing the matter back-
ward and forward in his mind, and getting
more and more uncomfortable, and unable to
answer to his own satisfaction the simple ques-
tion, “What right have you to be out here on
this errand ?”

He got up a second time and walked up and
down, but with no better success than before.
The change of position and exercise did not
help him out of his difficulties. And now he
got a step farther. If he had no right to be
there, hadn’t he better go up to the house and
say so, and go to bed like the rest ? No, his

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

19;;

pride couldn’t stand that. But if he couldn’t
go in, he might turn into a barn or outhouse ;
nobody would be any the wiser then, and after
all he was not pledged to stop on one spot all
niglit? It was a tempting suggestion, and he
was very near yielding to it at once. While
he wavered, a new set of thoughts came up to
back it. How', if he staid there and a gang of
night-poachers came ? He knew that many of
them were desperate men. He had no arms ;
what could he do against them ? Nothing ;
but lie might be maimed for life in a night row
which he had no business to be in — mui'dered,
perhaps. He stood still, and listened long and
painfully.

Every moment, as he listened, the silence
mastered him more and more, and his reason
became more and more powerless. It was such
a silence — a great illimitable, vague silence !
The silence of a deserted house — where he could
at least have felt that he was bounded some-
where, by wall, and floor, and roof — where men
must have lived and worked once, though they
might he there no longer — would have been
nothing ; but this silence of the huge, wide out-
of-doors world, where there was nothing but air
and space around and above him, and the
ground beneath, it was getting irksome, intoler-
able, awful ! The great silence seemed to be
saying to him, “ You are alone, alone, alone !”
and he had . never known before what horror
lurked in that thought.

Every moment that he stood still th.e spell
grew stronger on him, and yet he dared not
move ; and a strange, wild feeling of fear — un-
mistakable physical fear, which made his heart
beat and his limbs tremble — seized on him.
He was ready to cry out, to fall down, to run,
and yet there he stood listening, still and mo-
tionless.

Tile critical moment in all panics must come
at last. A wild and grewsome hissing and
snoring, which seemed to come from the air just
over his head, made him start and spring for-
ward, and gave him the use of his limbs again,
at any rate, though they would not have been
worth much to him had the ghost or hobgoblin
appeared whom he half expected to see the
next moment. Then came a screech, which
seemed to flit along the rough meadow oppo-
site, and come towards him. He drew a long-
breath, for he knew that sound well enough ; it
Avas nothing, after all, but the owls.

The mere realized consciousness of the pres-
ence of some living creatures, Avero they only
oAvls, brought him to his senses. And noAv the
moon Avas Avell up, and the AvavAvard mist had
cleared aAvay, and he could catch glimpses of
the solemn birds every noAv and then, beating
over the rough meadoAV backAA’ard and foi-Avard,
and over the shalloAv Avater, as regularly as
trained pointers.

He threw himself doAvn again under his tree,
and noAv bethought himself of his pipe. Here
was a companion Avhich, Avonderful to say, he
had not thought of before since the night set
13

in. He pulled it out, but paused before light-
ing. Nothing Avas so likely to betray his
Avhcrcabouts as tobacco. True, but any tiling
Avas better than such another fright as he had
had; “so here goes,” he thought, “if I keep
off all the poachers in Berkshire and he ac-
cordingly lighted up, and, Avith the help of his
pipe, once more debated Avith himself the ques-
tion of beating a retreat.

After a sharp inAvard struggle, he concluded
to stay and see it out. He should despise
himself more than he cared to face, if he gave
in noAv. If he left that spot before morning,
the motiA-^e AA'ould be sheer coAvardice. There
might be fifty other good reasons for going;
but if he Avent, his reason would be fear, and
nothing else. It might have been wrong and
foolish to come out; it must be to go in noAv.
“Fear never made a man do a right action,”
he summed up to himself; “so here I stop,
come Avhat may of it. I think I’ve seen the
worst of it now. I Avas in a real blue funk,
and no mistake. Let’s see, Avasn’t I laughing
this morning at the Avatcher Avho didn’t like
passing a night by the riA’er? Well, he has
got the laugh of me now, if" he only kncAV it.
I’a'c learned one lesson to-night, at any rate ; I
don’t think I shall ever be very hard on cow-
ards again.”

By the time he had finished his pipe, he Avas
a man again, and, moreoA'er, notAvithstanding
the damp, began to feel sleepy, noAv that his
mind Avas thoroughly made up and his nerA-es
Avere quiet. So he made the best of his plaid,
and picked a softish place, and AA'ent oft’ into
a sort of dog-sleep, which lasted at intervals
through the short summer night. A poor, thin
sort of sleep it Avas, inAvhichhe ncA-er altogether
lost his consciousness, and br'oken by short inter-
vals of actual Avakefulness, but a blessed release
from the self-questionings and panics of the ear-
ly night.

He Avoko at last Avith a shiver. It Avas cold-
er than he had yet felt it, and it seemed lighter.
He stretched his half-torpid limbs, and sat up.
Yes, it Avas certainly getting light, for he could
just make out the figures on the face of his
Avatch Avhich he pulled out. The daAvn Avas al-
most upon him, and his night-Avatch Avas OAer.
Nothing had come of it as yet, except his fright,
at Avhich he could now laugh comfortably
enough ; probably nothing more might come of
it after all, but he had done the task he had set
himself Avithout flinching, and that Avas a satis-
faction. He Avound up his Avatch, Avhich he had
forgotten to do the night before, and then stood
up, and thrcAV his damp plaid aside, and SAvung
his arms across his chest to i-estore circulation.
The crescent moon Avas high up in the sky, faint
and Avhite, and he could scarcely noAv make out
tlie stars, Avhich Avere fading out as the gloAV in
the north-east got stronger and bi-oader.

Forgetting for a moment the purpose of his
vigil, he Avas thinking of a long morning’s fish-
ing, and had turned to pick up his plaid and go
off to the house for his fishing-rod, Avhen he

194

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

thought he heard the sound of dry wood snap-
ping. He listened intently ; the next moment
it came again, some way otf, but plainly to be
heard in the intense stillness of the morning.
Some living thing Avas moving down the stream.
Another moment’s listening, and he was con-
vinced that the sound came from a hedge some
hundred yards below.

He had noticed the hedge before : the keeper
had stopped up a gap in it the day before, at the
place where it came down to the water, with some
old hurdles and dry thorns. He drew himself
up behind his alder, looking out from behind it
cautiously towards the point from which the
sound came. He could just make out the hedge
through the mist, but saw nothing.

But now the crackling began again, and he
was sure that a man was forcing his way over the
keeper’s barricade. A moment afterwards he
saw a figure drop from the hedge into the slip in
Avhich he stood. He drew back his head hastily,
and his heart beat like a hammer as he waited
the approach of the stranger. In a few seconds
the suspense was too much for him, for again
there was perfect silence. He peered out a sec-
ond time cautiously round the tree, and now he
could make out the figure of a man stooping by
the water-side just above the hedge, and draAv-
ing in a line. This Avas enough, and he drew
back again, and made himself small behind the
tree ; now he was sure that the keeper’s enemy,
the man he had come out to take, was here.
Ilis next halt would be at the line which was set
Avithin a feAV yards of the place whei’e he stood.
So the struggle Avhich he had courted AA^as come !
All his doubts of the night wrestled in his mind
for a minute ; but, forcing them doAvn, he strung
himself up for the encounter, his whole frame
trembling Avith excitement, and his blood ting-
ling through his veins as though it Avould burst
them. The next minute Avas as severe a trial
of nerve as he had ever been put to, and the
sound of a stealthy tread on the grass just beloAV
came to him as a relief. It stopped, and he
heard the man stoop, then came a stir in the
AA'ater, and the flapping as of a fish being landed.

Noav Avas his time ! He sprang from behind
the tree, and the next moment Avas over the
stooping figure of the poacher. Before he could
seize him, the man sprang up and grappled with
him. They had come to a tight lock at once,
for the poacher had risen so close under him that
he could not catch his collar and hold him off.
Too close to strike, it AA-as a desperate trial of
strength and bottom.

Tom kneAV in a moment that he had hisAvork
cut out for him. He felt the nervous poAver of
the frame he had got hold of as he droA^e his chin
into the poacher’s shoulder, and arched his back,
and strained every muscle in his body to force
liim backward, but in vain. It Avas all he could
do to hold his OAvn ; but he felt that he might
hold it yet, as they staggered on the brink of the
back ditch, stamping the grass and marsh mari-
golds into the ground, and draAving deep breath
through their set teeth. A slip, a false foot-

hold, a failing muscle, and it Avould be over;
doAvn they must go — Avho Avould be uppermost?

The poacher trod on a soft place and Tom
felt it, and, throAving himself forAvard, Avas reck-
oning on victory, but reckoning Avithout his host.
For, recovering himself Avith a twist of the body
which brought them still closer together, the
poacher locked his leg behind Tom’s, in a crook
Avhich brought the Avrestlings of his boyhood into
his head Avith a flash, as they tottered for anoth-
er moment, and then, losing balance, Avent head-
long OA'er Avith a heavy plunge and splash into
the deep back ditch, locked tight in each other’s
arms.

The cold Avater closed over them, and for a
moment Tom held as tight as eA^er. Under or
above the surface it was all the same, he couldn’t
give in first. But a gulp of Avater, and the sing-
ing in his ears, and a feeling of choking, brought
him to his senses, helped, too, by the thought of
his mother, and Mary, and loA-e of the pleasant
Avorld up above. The folly and uselessness of
being drowned in a ditch on a point of honor
stood out before him as clearly as if he had been
thinking of nothing else all his life ; and he let
go his hold — much relieved to find that his com-
panion of the bath seemed equally Avilling to be
quit of him — and struggled to the surface, and
seized the bank, gasping and exhausted.

His first thought Avas to turn round and look
for his adversary. The poacher Avas by the bank
too, a few feet from him. His cap had fallen
oif in the struggle, and, all chance of conceal-
ment being over, he too had turned to face the
matter out, and their eyes met.

“ Good God ! Harry ! is it you ?”

Harry Winburn ansAvered nothing ; and the
two dragged their feet out of the soft muddy
bottom and scrambled on to the bank, and then,
Avith a sort of common instinct, sat down, drip-
ping and foolish, each on the place he had reach-
ed, and looked at one another. Probably tAvo
more thoroughly bewildered lieges of her Majes-
ty were not at that moment facing one another
in any corner of the United Kingdom.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

MAKY IN MAYFAIR.

On the night Avhich our hero spent by the side
of the river, Avith the results detailed in the last
chapter, there Avas a great ball in Brook Street,
Mayfair. It Avas the height of the season ; and
of course balls, concerts, and parties of all kinds
Avere going on in all parts of the Great Babylon ;
but the entertainment in question Avas the event
of that evening. Persons behind the scenes
would have told you at once, had you happened
to meet them, and inquire on the subject during
the previous ten days, that Brook Street Avas the
place in Avhich CA'ery body who Avent anyAvhere
ought to spend some hours between eleven and
three on this particular evening. If you did not
happen to be going there, vou had better stay

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

19.3

quietly at your club, or your home, and not
speak of your engagements for that night.

A great awning had sprung up in the course
of the day over the pavement in front of the
door, and, as tire evening closed in, tired lawyers
and merchants, on their return from the Cit}’,
and the riders and drivers on their way home
from the Park, miglit have seen Holland’s men
laying red drugget over the pavement, and Gun-
ter’s carts coming and going, and the police
“moving on” the street- boys and servant-
maids, and other curious members of the mass-
es, who paused to stare at the preparations.

Then came the ligliting up of the rooms, and
the blaze of pure white light from the uncur-
tained ball-room windows spread into the street,
and the musieians passed in with their instru-
ments. Then, after a short pause, the carriages
of a few intimate friends, who came early at the
hostess’s express desire, began to drive up, and
the Hansom cabs of the contemporaries of the
eldest son, from which issued guardsmen and
Foreign-office men, and other dancing-youtli of
the most approved description. Then the crowd
collected again round the door — a sadder crowd
now to the eye of any one who has time to look
at it; with sallow, haggard-looking men here
and there on the skirts of it, and tawdry women
joking and pushing to tlie front, through the
powdered footmen, and linkmen in red waist-
coats, already clamorous and redolent of gin and
beer, and scarcely kept baek by the half-dozen
constables of the A division, told off for the spe-
cial duty of attending and keeping order on so
important an occasion.

Then comes a rush of carriages, and by elev-
en o’clock the line stretches away half round
Grosvenor Square, and moves at a foot’s pace
towards the lights, and the music, and the shout-
ing street. In the middle of the line is the
comfortable chariot of our friend Mr. Porter —
the corners occupied by himself and his wife,
while Miss Mary sits well forward between
them, her white muslin dress looped up with
sprigs of heather spread delicately on either side
over their knees, and herself in a pleasant tre-
mor of impatience and excitement.

“ How very slow Robert is to-day, mamma !
we shall never get to the house.”

“ He can not get on faster, my dear. The
carriages in front of us must set down, you
know.”

“ But I wish they would be quicker. T won-
der whether we shall know many people ? Do
you think I shall get partners ?”

Not waiting for her mother’s reply, she went
on to name some of her acquaintance who she
knew would be there, and bewailing the hard
fate which was keeping her out of the first
dances. Mary’s excitement and impatience
were natural enough. The ball was not like
most balls. It was a great battle in the midst
of the skirmishes of the season, and she felt the
greatness of the occasion.

Mr. and Mrs. Porter had for years past drop-
ped into a quiet sort of dinner-giving life, in

which they saw few but their own friends and
contemporaries. They generally left London
before the season was at its Iieight, and had
altogether fallen out of the ball -giving and
party-going world. Mary’s coming out had
changed their way of life. For her sake they
had spent the winter at Rome, and, now that
they were at home again, were picking up the
threads of old acquaintance, and encounter-
ing the disagreeables of a return into habits
long disused and almost forgotten. The giver
of the ball was a stirring man in political life —
rich, clever, well-connected, and much sought
after. He was an old school - fellow of Mr.
Porter’s, and their intimacy had never been
wholly laid aside, notwithstanding the sever-
ance of their paths in life. Now that IMary
must be taken out, the Brook Street house was
one of the first to which the Porters turned, and
the invitation to this ball was one of the first
consequences.

If the truth must be told, neither her father
nor mother were in sympathy with Mary as they
gradually neared the place of setting down, and
would far rather have been going to a much
less imposing place, where they could have
driven up at once to the door, and would not
have been made uncomfortable by the shoutings
of their names from servant to servant. How-
ever, after the first plunge, when they had made
their bows to their kind and smiling hoste.ss, and
had passed on into the already well-filled rooms,
their shyness began to wear off, and they could
in some sort enjoy the beauty of the sight from
a quiet corner. They were not long troubled with
Miss Mary. , She had not been in the ball-room
two minutes before the eldest son of the house
had found her out and engaged her for the next
waltz. They had met several times already,
and were on the best terms ; and the freshness
and brightness of her look and manner, and the
evident enjoyment of her partner, as they
laughed and talked together in the intervals of
the dance, soon attracted the attention of the
young men, who began to ask one another,
“Who is Norman dancing with?” and to ejac-
ulate with various strength, according to their
several temperaments, as to her face, and figure,
and dress.

As they were returning towards Mrs. Porter,
Norman was pulled by the sleeve more than
once, and begged to be allowed to introduce first
one and then another of his friends.

Mary gave herself up to the fascination of the
scene. She had never been in rooms so per-
fectly lighted, with such a floor, such exquisite
music, and so many pretty and well-bred-look-
ing people, and she gave herself up to enjoy it
with all her heart and soul, and danced and
laughed and talked herself into the good graces
of partner after partner till she began to attract
the notice of some of the ill-natured people who
are to be found in every room, and who can
not pardon the pure, and buoyant, and unsus-
pecting mirth which carries away all but them-
selves in its bright stream. So Mary passed on

196

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

from one partner to another, with whom we have
no concern, until at last a young lieutenant in
the guards, who had just finished his second
dance with her, led up a friend whom he begged
to introduce. “Miss Porter — Mr. St. Cloud
and then, after the usual preliminaries, Mary
left her mother’s side again and stood up by
the side of her new partner.

“It is your first season, I believe. Miss Por-
ter?”

“Yes, my first in London.”

“ I thought so ; and you have only just come
to town ?”

“We came back from Rome six weeks ago,
and have been in town ever since.”

“But I am sure I have not seen you any-
where this season until to-night. You have not
been out much yet?”

“ Yes, indeed. Papa and mamma are very
good-natured, and go whenever we are asked to
a ball, as I am fond of dancing.”

“ How very odd! and yet I am quite sure I
should have remembered it if we had met be-
fore in town this year.”

“Is it so very odd? asked Mary, laughing;
“ London is a very large place. It seems very
natural that tw'O people should be able to live in
it for a long time without meeting.”

“ Indeed, you are quite mistaken. You will
find out very soon how small London is — at
least how small society is ; and you will get to
know every face quite well — I mean the face of
every one in society.”

“You must have a wonderful memory !”
“Yes, I have a good memory for faces, and,
hy-the-way, I am sure I have seen you before ;
but not in town, and I can not remember where.
But it is not at all necessary to have a memory
to know every body in society by sight; you
meet every night almost ; and altogether there
are only two or three hundred faces to remem-
ber. And then there is something in the look
of people, and the way they come into a room
or stand about, which tells yon at once whether
they are among those w'hom you need trouble
yourself about.”

“ Well, I can not understand it. I seem to
be in a whirl of faces, and can hardly ever re-
member any of them.”

“You will soon get used to it. By the end
of the season you wdll see that I am right.
And you ought to make a study of it, or you
will never feel at home in London.”

“I must make good use of my time, then.
I suppose I ought to know every body here, for
instance ?”

“Almost every body.”

“And I really do not know the names of a
dozen people.”

“ Will yon let me give you a lesson ?”

“ Oh yes ; I shall be much obliged.”

“Then let us stand here, and we will take
them as they pass to the supper-room.”

So they stood near the door-way of the ball-
room, and he ran on, exchanging constant nods
and remarks with the passers-by, as the stream

flowed to and from the ices and cup, and then
rattling on to his partner with the names and
short sketches of the characters and peculiari-
ties of his large acquaintance. Mary was very
much amused, and had no time to notice the
ill-nature of most of his remarks ; and he had
the wit to keep within what he considered the
most innocent bounds.

“There, you know him of course,” he said,
as an elderly soldier-like-looking man with a
star passed them.

“Yes ; at least, I mean I know him by sight.
I saw him at the Commemoration at Oxford
last year. Tliey gave him an honorary degree
on his return from India.”

“At Oxford! Were you at the Grand Com-
memoration, then ?”

“Yes. The Commemoration Ball was the
first public ball I was ever at.”

“Ah! that explains it all. I must have
seen you there. I told you we had met before.
I was perfectly sure of it.”

“ What ! were you there, then ?”

“Yes. I had the honor of being present at
your first ball, you see.”

“But how curious that you should remem-
ber me !”

“Do you really think so? Surely there are
some faces which, once seen, one can never for-
get.”

“ I am so glad that you know dear Oxford.”
“I know it too well, perhaps, to share your
enthusiasm.”

“How do you mean?”

“I spent nearly three years there.”

“ What, were you at Oxford last year ?”
“Yes. I left before Commemoration; but
I went up for the gayeties, and I am glad of it,
as I shall have one pleasant memory of the place
now.”

“ Oh, I wonder you don’t love it ! But what
college were you of?”

“ Why, you talk like a graduate. I was of
St. Ambrose.”

“ St. Ambrose ! That is my college !”
“Indeed! I wish we had been in residence
at the same time.”

“I mean that we almost lived there at the
Commemoration.”

“ Have you any relation there, then ?”

“ No, not a relation, only a distant connec-
tion.”

“May I ask his name ?”

‘ ‘ Brown. . Did you know him ?”

“Yes. We were not in the same set. He
was a boating man, I think?”

She felt that he was watching her narrowly
now, and had great difficulty in keeping herself
reasonably composed. As it was, she could not
help showing a little that she felt embarrassed,
and looked down, and changed color slightly,
busying herself with her bouquet. She longed
to continue the conversation, but somehow the
manner of her partner kept her from doing so.
She resolved to recur to the subject carelessly,
if they met again, when she knew him better.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

197

The fact of Iris having been at St. Ambrose
made her wish to know him better, and gave
him a good start in lier favor. But for the
moment she felt that she must change the sub-
ject ; so, looking tip, she fixed on the first peo-
ple who liappened to be passing, and asked who
they were.

“ Oh, nobody ; constituents probably, or some-
thing of that sort.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why, you see, we are in a political- house
to-night. So you may set down the people
whom nobody knows as troublesome ten-pound-
ers, or that kind of thing, who would be disa-
greeable at the next election, if they were not
asked.”

“Then you do not include tltem in society ?”
“ By no manner of means.”

“And I need not take the trouble to remem-
ber their faces ?”

“ Of course not. There is a sediment of
rubbish at almost every house. At the parties
here it is political rubbish. To-morrow night,
at Lady Aubrey’s — you will be there, I hope ?”
“ No, we do not know her.”

“I am sorry for that. Well, there we shall
have the scientific rubbish ; and at other houses
you see queer artists, and writing people. In
fact, it is the rarest thing in the world to get a
party where there is nothing of the kind, and,
after all, it is rather amusing to watch the habits
of the different species.”

“Well, to me the rubbish, as you call it,
seems much like the rest. I am sure those
people were ladies and gentlemen.”

“Very likely,” he said, lifting his eyebrows ;
“but you may see at a glance that they have
not the air of society. Here, again, look your-
self. You can see that these are constitu-
ents.”

To the horror of St. Cloud, the advancing
constituents made straight for his partner.

“ Mary, my dear !” exclaimed the lady,
“ where have you been ? We have lost you
ever since the last dance.”

“I have been standing here, mamma,” she
said ; and then, slipping from her late partner’s
arm, she made a demure little bow, and passed
into the ball-room with her father and mother.

St. Cloud bit his lip, and swore at himself,
under his breath, as he looked after them.
“ What an infernal idiot I must have been not
to know that her people would be sure to turn
out something of that sort !” thought he. “ By
Jove! I’ll go after them, and set myself right
before the little minx has time to think it over.”
He took a step or two towards the ball-room,
but then thought better of it, or his courage failed
him. At any rate, he turned round again, and
sought the refreshment-room, where he joined
a knot of young gentlemen indulging in delicate
little raised pies and salads, and liberal pota-
tions of iced claret or Champagne cup. Among
them was the guardsman who had introduced
him to Mary, and who received him, as he came
up, with —

“ Well, St. Cloud, I hope you are alive to
your obligations to me.”

“For shunting your late partner on to me?
Yes, quite.”

“ You be hanged !” replied the guardsman ;
“you may pretend what you ])lease now, but
you wouldn’t let me alone till I had introduced
you.”

“Are you talking about the girl in wliitc
muslin with fern leaves in her hair?” asked an-
other.

“ Yes ; what do you think of licr ?”

“Devilish taking, I think. I say, can’t you
introduce me ? They say she has tin.”

“I can’t say I think much of her looks,” said
St. Cloud, acting up to his principle of telling a
lie sooner than let his real thoughts be seen.

“ Don’t you ?” said the guardsman. “Well,
I like her form better than any thing out this
year. Such a clean stepper ! You should just
dance with her.”

And so they went on criticising Mary and
others of their partners, exactly as they tvould
have talked of a stud of racers, till they found
themselves sufficiently refreshed to encounter
new labors, and broke up, returning in twos and
threes towards the ball-room.

St. Cloud attached himself to the guardsman,
and returned to the charge.

“You seem hit by that girl,” ho began;
“ have you known her long ?”

“About a week — I met her once before to-
night.”

“Do you know her people? Who is her
father?”

“A plain-headed old party — 3'ou wouldn’t
think it to look at her ; but I hear he is very
solvent.”

“Any sons?”

“Don’t know. — I like jmur talking of my be-
ing hit, St. Cloud. There she is ; I shall go
and try for another waltz.”

The guardsman was successful, and carried
off Mary from her father and mother, who were
standing together watching the dancing. St.
Cloud, after looking them well over, sought out
the hostess, and begged to be introduced to Mr.
and Mrs. Porter, gleaning, at the same time,
some particulars of who they were. The intro-
duction was effected in a minute, the lady of the
house being glad to get any one to talk to the
Porters, who were almost strangers among her
other guests. She managed, before leaving
them, to whisper to Mrs. Porter that he was a
young man of excellent connections.

St. Cloud made the most of his time. He
exerted himself to the utmost to please, and, be-
ing fluent of speech, and thoroughly satisfied
with himself, had no shyness or awkwardness to
get over, and jumped at once into the good
graces of Mary’s parents. When she returned
after the waltz, she found him, to her no small
astonishment, deep in conversation with her
mother, who was listening with a pleased expres-
sion to his small talk. He pretended not to
see her at first, and then begged Mrs. Porter to

198

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

introduce liim formally to her daughter, though
he had already had the honor of dancing with
her.

Mary put on her shortest and coldest manner,
and thought she had never heard of such im-
pertinence. That he should be there talking so
familiarly to her mother after the slip he had
made to her, v/as almost too much even for her
temper. But she Avent off for another dance,
and again returned and found him still there ;
this time entertaining Mr. Porter with political
gossip. The unfavorable impression began to
wear off, and she soon resolved not to make
up her mind about him without some further
knowledge.

In due course he asked her to dance again,
and they stood up in a quadrille. She stood by
him looking straight before her, and perfectly
silent, Avondering hoAv he Avould open the con-
versation, He did not leave her long in sus-
pense.

“What charming people your father and
mother are. Miss Porter !” he said; “I am so
glad to haA'e been introduced to them.”

“Indeed! You are very kind. We ought
to be flattered by your study of us, and I am
sure I hope you will And it amusing.

St. Cloud Avas a little embarrassed by the re-
joinder, and Avas not sorry at the moment to
And himself called upon to perform the second
figure. By the time he Avas at her side again
he had I'ecoA’ered himself.

“ You can’t understand Avhat a pleasure it is
to meet some one Avith a little freshness — ” he
paused to think hoAV he should end his sen-
tence.

“Who has not the air of society,” she sug-
gested. “Yes, I quite understand.”

“Indeed, you quite mistake me. Surely,
you have not taken seriously the nonsense I Avas
talking just noAV?”

“ I am a constituent, you knoAv — I don’t un-
derstand hoAV to take the talk of society.”

“ Oh, I see, then, that you are angry at my
joke, and Avill not bclioA'e that I kneAV your fa-
ther perfectly by sight. You really can not se-
riously fancy that I aa^s alluding to any one con-
nected Avith you and then he proceeded to re-
tail the particulars he had picked up from the
lad;- of the house, as if they had been familiar
to him for years, and to launch out again into
praises of her father and mother. Mary looked
straight up in his face, and, though he did not
meet her eye, his manner Avas so composed that
she began to doubt her OAvn senses, and then he
suddenly changed the subject to Oxford and the
Commemoration, and by the end of the set could
flatter himself that he had quite dispelled the
cloud Avhich had looked so threatening.

Mary had a great success that evening. She
danced eA-ery dance, and might have had two or
three partners at once if they Avould have been
of any use to her. When, at last, Mr. Porter
insisted that he would keep his horses no long-
er, St. Cloud and the guardsman accompanied
her to the door, and AA'ero assiduous in the cloak-

room. Young men are pretty much like a drove
of sheep ; any one Avho takes a decided line on
certain matters is sure to lead all the rest. The
guardsman left the ball in the firm belief, as he
himself expressed it, that Mary “had done his
business for life;” and, being quite above con-
cealment, persisted in singing her praises over
his cigar at the club, to Avhich many of the dan-
cers adjourned ; and from that night she became
the fashion Avith the set in which St. Cloud lived.
The more enterprising of them, he among the
foremost, Avere soon intimate in Mr. Porter’s
house, and spoke Avell of his dinners. Mr. Por-
ter changed his hour of riding in the park at
their suggestion, and noAv he and his daughter
Avere ahvays sure of companions. Invitations
multijflied, for Mary’s success Avas so decided,
th.at she floated her astonished parents into a
Avhirl of balls and breakfasts. Mr. Porter and
his Avife Avere flattered themselves, and pleased
to see their daughter admii’ed and enjoying her-
self ; and in the next six Aveeks Mary had the
opportunity of getting all the good and the bad
Avhich a girl of eighteen can extract from a Lon-
don season.

The test Avas a severe one. Tavo months of
constant excitement, of pleasure-seeking pure
and simple, Avill not leave people just as they
found them ; and Mary’s habits, and thoughts,
and Avays of looking at and judging of people
and things, Avere much changed by the time that
the gay world melted aAvay from Mayfair and
Belgravia, and it w'as time for all respectable
people to pull doAvn the blinds and shut the shut-
ters of their tOAvn houses.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

WHAT CAME OF THE NIGUT-AVATCH.

The last knot of the dancers came out of the
club, and were strolling up St. James’s Street,
and stopping to chaff’ the itinerant coffee A'en-
der, Avho Avas preparing his stand at the corner
of Piccadilly for his early customers, just about
the time that Tom aa'us beginning to rouse him-
self under the alder-tree, and stretch his stiffen-
ed limbs and sniff the morning air. By the
time the guardsman had let himself into his
lodgings in Mount Street, our hero had under-
gone his unlooked-for bath, and AA-as sitting in a
state of utter beAvilderment as to Avbat Avasnext
to be said or done, dripping and disconcerted,
opposite to the equally dripping, and, to all ap-
pearance, equally disconcerted, poacher.

At first he did not look higher than his an-
tagonist’s boots and gaiters, and spent a feAV sec-
onds, by-the-AvaAq in considering Avhether the
arrangement of nails on the bottom of Harry’s
boots Avas better than his OAvn. He settled that
it must better for Avading on slippery stones, and
that he Avould adopt it, and then passed on to
Avonder Avhether Harry’s boots Avere as full of
Avater as his OAvn, and whether corduroys, wet
through, must not be very uncomfortable so early

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

in the morning, and congratulated himself on
being in flannels.

And so he hnng back for second after sec-
ond, playing with any absurd little thought that
would come into his head and give him ever so
brief a respite from the effort of facing the sit-
uation, and hoping that Harry might do or say
something to open the ball. This did not hap-
pen. He felt that the longer he waited the
harder it would be. He must begin himself.
So he raised his head gently and took a side-
long look at Harry’s face, to see whether he
could not get some hint for starting from it.
But scarcely had he brought his eyes to bear,
when they met Harry’s, peering dolefully up
from under his eyebrows, on which the water
was standing unwiped, while a piece of green
weed, which he did not seem to have presence
of mind enough to remove, trailed over his
dripping locks. There was something in the
sight which tickled Tom’s sense of humor. He
Iiad been prepared for sullen black looks and
fierce words ; instead of which he was irresisti-
bly reminded of school-boys caught by their mas-
ter using a crib, or in other like flagrant delict.

Harry lowered his eyes at once, but lifted
them the next moment with a look of surprise,
as he heal'd Tom burst into a hearty fit of
laughter. After a short struggle to keep se-
rious, he joined in it himself.

“By Jove! though, Harry, it’s no laughing
matter,” Tom said at last, getting on to his
legs and giving himself a shake.

Harry only replied by looking most doleful
again, and picking the weed out of his hair, as
he too got up.

“ What in the world’s to be done ?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Master Tom.”

“I’m very much surprised to find you at this
work, Harry.”

“ I’m sure, so be I, to And you. Master Tom.”

Tom was not prepared for this line of rejoin-
der. It seemed to be made with perfect inno-
cence, and yet it put him in a corner at once.
He did not care to inquire into the reason of
Harry’s surprise, or to what work he alluded ;
so he went off on another tack.

“ Let us walk up and down a bit to dry our-
selves. Now, Harry, you’ll speak to me openly,
man to man, as an old friend should — won’t
you ?”

“ Aye, Master Tom, and glad to do it.”

“ How long have you taken to poaching?”

“Since last Michaelmas, when they turned
me out o’ our cottage, and tuk away my bit o’
land, and did all as they could to break me
down.”

“ Who do you mean ?”

“ Why, Squire Wurley as was then — not this
one, but the last — and his lawyer, and Farmer
Tester.”

“ Then it w’as through spite to them that you
took to it ?”

“Nay, ’twarn’t altogether spite, tho’ I won’t
say but what I might ha’ thought o’ bein’ up-
sides w'i’ them.”

rJl)

“ What was it, then, besides spite ?”

“ Want o’ work. I haven’t had no more’n a
matter o’ six w'eeks’ reg’lar work ever since last
fall.”

“How’s that? Have you tried for it ?”

“ Well, Master Tom, I won’t tell a lie about
it. I don’t see as I wur bound to go round wi’
my cap in my hand a beggin’ for a day’s work
to the likes o’ them. They knowed well enough
as I wur there, ready and willing to work, and
they knowed as I wur able to do as good a day’s
work as e’er a man in the parish ; and ther’s
been plenty o’ work goin’. But they thought
as I should starve, and have to come and beg
for’t from one or t’other on ’em. They would
ha’ liked to ha’ seen me clean broke down, that’s
wut they would, and in tlie house,” and he
paused as if his thoughts were getting a little
unmanageable.

“But you might have gone to look for work
elsewhere.”

“ I can’t see as I had any call to leave the
place where I wur bred up. Master Tom. That
wur just wut they wanted. Why should I let
’em drive m’out ?”

“Well, Harry, I’m not going to blame you.
I only want to know more about what has been
happening to you, that I may be able to advise
and help you. Did you ever try for work, or
go and tell your story, at the Rectory ?”

“Try for work there ! No, I never went ar-
ter work there,”

Tom went on, without noticing the change in
Harry’s tone and manner :

“ Then I think }'ou ought to have gone. I
know my cousin. Miss Winter, is so anxious to
help any man out of work, and particularly you ;
for — ” The whole story of Patty flashed into his
mind, and made him stop short and stammer, and
look anywhere except at Harry. How he could
have forgotten it for a moment in that company
was a wonder. All his questioning and patron-
izing powers went out of him, and he felt that
their positions were changed, and that he was the
culprit. It was clear that Harry knew nothing
yet of his own relations with Patty. Did he even
suspect them ? It must all come out now, at any
rate, for both their sakes, however it might end.
So he turned again, and met Harry’s eye, which
was now cold and keen, and suspicious.

“You knows all about it, then?”

“ Yes ; I know that you have been attached to
Simon’s daughter for a long time, and that he is
against it. I wish I could help you, with all my
heart. In fact, I did feel my way towards speak-
ing to him about it last year, when I was in hopes
of getting you the gardener’s place there. But
I could see that I should do no good.”

“I’ve heard say as you was acquainted with
her when she was away ?”

“Yes I was, when she was with her aunt in
Oxford. 'V^^hat then ?”

“’Twas there as she larnt her bad ways.”
“Bad ways! 'What do you mean ?”

“I means as she larnt to dress fine, and to
gee herself airs to them as she’d known from a

200

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

child, and as’d ha’ gone through fire to please
her,”

“ I never saw any thing of the kind in her.
She was a pleasant, lively girl, and dressed neat-
ly, but never above her station. And I’m sure
she has too good a heart to hurt an old friend.”

don’t believe what you’re saying, you know her
better.”

“You knows her well enough, by all seem-
ing,”

“ I know her too well to believe any harm of
her.”

“'’Uii A niE. I KNOWEO HOW ’twAJS, AND ’tIS THOU HAST DONE IT."

“Wut made her keep shut up in the house
when she cum back ? ah ! for days and weeks ;
and arter that, wut made her so flighty and fic-
kle ? carryin’ of herself as proud as a lady, a minc-
in’ and a trapesin’ along, wi’ all the young farm-
ers a follerin’ her, like a fine gentleman’s miss.”
“ Come, Harry, I won’t listen to that. You

“What call have you and the likes o’ you wi’
her ? ’Tis no good comes o’ such company kecp-
in’.”

“ I tell you again, no harm has come of it to
her.”

“ Whose hair does she oarry about, then, in
that gold thing as she hangs round her neck?”

TOM BROAVN

Tom blushed scarlet, and lowered his ej'cs
without answering.

“Dost know? ’Tis thine, by — The words
came hissing out between his set teeth. Tom
put his hands behind him, expecting to be struck,
as he lifted his eyes, and said,

“Yes, it is mine; and, I tell you again, no
harm has come of it.”

“’Tis a lie. I knowcd how ’twas, and ’tis
thou hast done it.”

Tom’s blood tingled in his veins, and wild
words rushed to his tongue as lie stood opposite
the man who had just given him the lie, and
who Avaited his reply with clenched hands, and
laboring breast, and fierce eye. But the disci-
pline of the last year stood him in good stead.
He stood for a moment or two crushing his hands
together behind his back, dr*ew a long breath, and
answered :

“Will you believe my oath, then? I stood
by your side at your mother’s graA'e. A man
Avho did that won’t lie to yon, Harry. I swear
to you there’s no wrong between me and her.
There never was fault on her side. I sought
her. She never cared for me; she doesn’t care
for me. As for that locket, I forced it on her.
I own I have wronged her, and wronged you.
I have repented it bitterly. I ask your forgive-
ness, Harry; for the sake of old times, for the
sake of your mother!” He spoke from the
heart, and saw that his words went home.
“Come, Harry,” he went on, “you won’t turn
from an old playfellow who owns the Avrong he
has done, and will do all he can to make up for
it. You’ll shake hands, and say you forgive
me.”

Tom paused, and held out his hand.

The poacher’s face worked violently for a mo-
ment or two, and he seemed to struggle once or
twice to get his hand out in vain. At last he
struck it suddenly into Tom’s, turning his head
aAvay at the same time. “’Tis what mother
wouldha’ done,”he said; “ thou cassn’t say more.
There ’tis, then, though I never thought to do’t.”

The curious and unexpected explanation,
brought thus to a happy issue, put Tom into
high spirits, and at once roused the castle-build-
ing power Avithin him, Avhich was always ready
enough to Avake up.

His first care Avas to persuade Harry that he
had better give up poaching, and in this he had
much less difficulty than he expected. Harry
owned himself sick of the life he was leading al-
ready. He admitted that some of the men Avith
Avhom he had been associating more or less for
the last year Avere the greatest blackguards in
the neighborhood. He asked nothing better
than to get out of it. But lioAv ?

This Avas all Tom wanted. He Avould see to
that ; nothing could be easier.

“I shall go Avithyou back to Englebourn this
morning. I’ll just leave a note for Wurley to
say that I’ll be back some time in the day to ex-
plain matters to him, and then Ave Avill be off at
once. We shall be at the rectory by breakfast-
time. Ah, I forgot ; Avell, you can stop at Da-

AT OXFORD. 201

vid’s while I go and speak to my uncle and to
Miss Winter.”

Harry didn’t seem to see Avhat Avould be the
good of this ; and David, he said, Avas not so
friendly to him as he had been.

“Then you must Avait at the Red Lion.
Don’t sec the good of it ! Why, of course,
the good of it is that you must be set right Avith
the Englebourn people — that’s the first thing to
do. I shall explain hoAv the case stands to my
uncle, and I knoAv that 1 can get him to let you
have your land again if you stay in the parish,
CAmn if he can’t give you Avork himself. But
Avhat he must do is to take you uj), to shoAv
people that he is your friend, Harry. Well,
then, if you can get good Avork — mind it must
be real, good, regular Avork — at Farmer Gro\-e’s,
or one of the best farmers, stop here by all
means, and I Avill take myself the first cottage
Avhich falls vacant and let you haAm it, and mean-
time you must lodge Avith old David. Oh, I’ll
go and talk him round, never fear. But if you
can’t get regular Avork here, Avhy you go off Avith
flying colors ; no sneaking off under a cloud and
leaving no address. You’ll go off Avith me, as
my servant, if you like. But just as you please
about that. At any rate, you’ll go Avith me,
and I’ll take care that it shall be knoAvn that I
consider you as an old friend. My father has
alAA'ays got plenty of Avork, and will take you
on. And then, Harry, after a bit you may be
sure all will go right, and I shall be your best
man, and dance at your Avedding before a year's
out.”

There is something in this kind of thing Avhich
is contagious and irresistible. Tom thoroughly
believed all that he was saying ; and faith, even
of such a poor kind as believing in one’s OAvn
castles, has its reAvard. Common sense in A-ain
suggested to Harry that all the clouds Avhich
had been gathering round him for a year Avere
not likely to melt aAvay in the morning. Pru-
dence suggested th^it the sooner he got away the
better ; Avhich suggestion, indeed, he handed on
for Avhat it was Avorth. But Tom treated pru-
dence with sublime contempt. They would go
together, he said, as soon as any one Avas up at the
house, just to let him in to change his things and
Avrite a note. Harry needn’t fear any unpleas-
ant consequences. "Wurley Avasn’t an ill-natured
fellow at bottom, and Avouldn’t mind a few fish.
Talking of fish, where was the one he had heard
kicking just noAv as Harry hauled in the line.
They Avent to the place, and, looking in the long
grass, soon found the dead trout, still on the
night-line, of Avhich the other end remained in
the Avater. Tom seized hold of it, and, pulling
it carefully in, landed another fine trout, Avhile
Harry stood by, looking rather sheepish. Tom
inspected the method of the lines, Avhich Avas
simple but awfully destructWe. The line Avas
long enough to reach across the stream. At
one end was a heavy stone, at the other a short
stake cut sharp, and driven into the bank AA^ell
under the water. At intervals of four feet along
the line short pieces of fine gimp were fastened.

202

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED.

ending in hooks baited alternately with lob-
worms and gudgeon. Tom complimented his
companion on the killing nature of his cross-
line.

“ Where are your other lines, Harry ?” he
asked ; “ we may as Avell go and take them up.”

“A bit higher up stream, Master Tom and
so they walked up stream and took up the other
lines.

“ They’ll have the finest dish of fish they’ve
seen this long time at the house to-day,” said
Tom, as each line came out with two or three
fine thick-shouldered fish on it; “I’ll tell you
what, HaiTy, they’re deuced well set, these lines
of yours, and do you credit. They do ; I’m not
complimenting you.”

“ I should rather like to be off. Master Tom,
if you don’t object. The mornin’s gettin’ on,
and the men’ll be about. ’Twonld be unked
for I to be caught.”

“ Well, Harry, if you're so set on it, off with
you, but — ”

“ ’Tis too late now ; here’s keeper.”

Tom turned sharp round, and, sure enough,
there was the keeper coming down the bank to-
wards them, and not a couple of hundred yards
off.

“So it is,” said Tom ; “ well, only hold your
tongue, and do just what I tell you.”

The keeper came up quickly, and, touching
his hat to Tom, looked inquiringly at him, and
then at Harry. Tom nodded to him as if every
thing were just as it should be. He was taking
a two-pound fish off the last line : having fin-
ished which feat he threw it on the ground by the
rest. “There, keeper,” he said, “there’s a
fine dish of fish. Now pick ’em up and come
along.”

Never was keeper more puzzled. He looked
from one to the other, lifting the little short
hat from the back of his head, and scratching
that somewhat thick skull of his, as his habit
was when engaged in what he called thinking,
conscious that somebody ought to be tackled,
and that he, the keeper, was being mystified,
but quite at sea as to how he was to set him-
self straight.

“Wet, bain’t ’ee, sir?” he said at last, nod-
ding at Tom’s clothes.

“Dampish, keeper,” answered Tom ; “I may
as well go and change ; the servants will be up at
the house by this time. Pick up the fish and
come along. You do up the lines, Harry.”

The keeper and Harry performed their tasks,
looking at one another out of the corners of
their eyes, like the terriers of rival butchers
when the carts happen to stop suddenly in the
street close to one another. Tom watched
them, mischievously delighted with the fun, and
then led the way up to the house. When they
came to the stable-yard he turned to Harry,
and said, “ Stop here ; I shan’t be ten min-
utes;” adding, in an undertone, “ Hold your
tongue now ;” and then vanished through the
back door, and, hurrying up to his room,
changed as quickly as he could.

He was within the ten minutes, but, as he de-
scended the back stairs in his dry things, be-
came aware that his stay had been too long.
Noise and laughter came up from the stable-
yard, and shouts of, “Go it, keeper,” “ Keeper’s
down,” “No he bain’t,” greeted his astonished
ears. He sprang down the last steps and rush-
ed into the stable-yard, where he found Harry at
his second wrestling-match for the day, while
two or three stablemen, and a footman, and the
gardener, looked on and cheered the combat-
ants with the remarks he had heard on his way
down.

Tom made straight to them, and, tapping
Harry on the shoulder, said :

“Now then, come along. I’m ready.”
Whereupon the keeper and Harry disengaged,
and the latter picked up his cap.

“You bain’t goin’, sir?” said the keeper.
“Yes, keeper.”

“Not along wi’ he ?”

“Yes, keeper.”

“ What, bain’t I to take un ?”

“ Take him ! No ; what for ?”

“For night poachin’; look at all them fish!”
said the keeper indignantly, pointing to the
shining heap.

“No, no, keeper, you’ve nothing to do with it.
You may give him the lines, though, Harry.
I’ve left a note for your master on my dressing-
table,” Tom said, turning to the footman ; “ let
him have it at breakfast. I’m responsible for
him,” nodding at Haiuy. “I shall be back in
a few hours, and now come along.”

And, to the keeper’s astonishment, Tom left
the stable-yard, accompanied by Harry.

They were scarcely out of hearing before the
stable-yard broke out into uproarious laughter
at the keeper’s expense, and much rude banter
was inflicted on him for letting the poacher go.
But the keeper’s mind for the moment was full
of other things. Disregarding their remarks,
he went on scratching his head, and burst cut
at last with,

“ Dang un ; I knows I should ha’ drowed un.”
‘ ‘ Dro w your gran dmother ! ’ ’ politely remarked
one of the stablemen, an acquaintance of Harry
Winburn, who knew his repute as a wrestler.

“I should, I tell ’ee,” said the keeper as he
stooped to gather up the fish; “and to think
as he should ha’ gone off! Master’ll be like
any wild beast when he hears on’t. How-
s’mever, ’tis Mr. Brown’s doin’s. ’Tis a queer
start for a gen’l’man like he to be goin’ off wi’
a poacher chap, and callin’ of un Harry. ’Tis
past me altogether. But I s’pose he bain’t
right in’s ’ead ;” and, so soliloquizing, he car-
ried off the fish to*the kitchen.

Meantime, on their walk to Englebourn, Har-
ry, in answer to Tom’s inquiries, explained that
in his absence the stableman, his acquaintance,
had come up and begun to talk. The keeper
had joined in and accused him point blank of
being the man who had thrown him into the
furze-bush. The story of the keeper’s discom-
fiture on that occasion being well known, a

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

203

laugh had been raised in which Harry had
joined. This brought on a challenge to try a
fall then and there, which Harry had accepted,
notwithstanding his long morning’s work and
the ducking he had had. They laughed over
the story, though Harry could not help ex-
pressing his fears as to how it might all end.
They reached Englebourn in time for break-
fast. Tom appeared at the rectory, and soon
he and Katie were on their old terms. She
was delighted to find tliat he had had an expla-
nation with Harry Winburn, and that there
was some chance of bringing that sturdy of-
fender once more back into decent rvays ; more
delighted, perhaps, to hear the way in which he
spoke of Fatty, to whom after breakfast she
paid a visit, and returned in due time with the
unfortunate locket.

Tom felt as if another coil of the chain he had
tied about himself had fallen off. He went out
into the village, consulted again with Hapy, and
returned to the Rectory to consider what steps
were to be taken to get him work. Katie enter-
ed into the matter heartily, though foreseeing
the difficulties of the case. At luncheon the
rector Avas to be sounded on the subject of the
allotments. But in the middle of their plans
they Avere startled by the news that a magis-
trate’s Avarrant had arrived in the village for the
arrest of Harry as a night poacher.

Tom returned to the Grange furious, and be-
fore night had had a worse quarrel Avith young
Wurley than Avith his uncle before him. Had
duelling been in fashion still in England, they
would probably have fought in a quiet corner of
the park before night. As it Avas, they only said
bitter things, and parted, agreeing not to know
one another in future.

Three days afterwards, at Petty Sessions,
Avhere Tom brought upon himself the severe
censure of the bench for his conduct on the trial,
Flarry Winburn was committed to Reading jail
for three months.

Readers Avho will take the trouble to remem-
ber the picture of our hero’s mental groAvth dur-
ing the past year, attempted to be given in a
late chapter, and the state of restless dissatisfac-
tion into Avhich his experiences and thoughts
and readings had throAvn him by the time
long vacation had come round again, Avill per-
haps be prepared for the catastrophe Avhich en-
sued on the conviction and sentence of Harry
Winburn at Petty Sessions-.

Hitherto, notwithstanding the strength of the
ncAV and revolutionary forces which were mus-
tering round it, there had always been a citadel
holding out in his mind, garrisoned by all that
Avas best in the toryism in Avhich he had been
brought up — by loyalty, reverence for establish-
ed order and established institutions ; by family
traditions, and the pride of an inherited good
name. But noAv the Avails of that citadel went
down with a crash, the garrison being put to the
sword, or making aAvay, to hide in out-of-the-
Svay corners, and Avait for a reaction.

It was much easier for a youngster, Avhose at-

tention Avas once turned to such subjects as had
been occupying Tom, to get hold of wild and vi-
olent beliefs and notions in those days than noAv.
The state of Europe generally Avas far more dead
and hopeless. There Avere no Avars, certainly,
and no expectations of wars. But tliere Avas a
dull, beaten-doAvn, pent-up feeling abroad, as if
the lid Avere screAved doAvn on the nations, and
the thing Avhich had been, hoAvever cruel and
heaA’y and mean, was that which Avas to remain
to the end. England Avas better off than her
neighbors, but yet in bad case. In the South
and West particularly, several causes had com-
bined to spread a very bitter feeling abroad among
the agricultural poor. First among these stood
the new poor laAV, the provisions of which Avere
rigorously cai'ried out in most districts. The
poor had as yet felt the harshness only of the
ncAV system. Then the land Avas in many places
in the hands of men on their last legs, the old
sporting farmers, Avho had begun business as
young men while the great Avar Avas going on,
had made money hand-OA'er-hand for a fcAv years
out of the Avar pi ices, and had tried to go on Ih’-
ing Avith greyhounds and yeomanry uniforms —
“ horse to ride and Aveapon to Avear ” — through
the hard years which had folloAved. These Averc
bad masters in every Avay — unthrifty, profligate,
needy, and narroAv-minded. The younger men
Avho were surplanting them were introducing
machinery, threshing-machines and winnoAving-
machines, to take the little bread which a poor
man was still able to earn out of the mouths of
his wife and children — so at least the poor
thought and muttered to one another ; and the
mutterings broke out every noAV and then in the
long nights of the winter months in blazing
ricks and broken machines. Game preserving
Avas on the increase. Australia and America had
not yet become familiar Avords in ev'ery English
village, and the labor market Avas everyAvhere
OA'erstocked ; and last, but not least, the corn
laws Avere still in force, and the bitter and exas-
perating strife in which they AA'ent out Avas at its
height. And while Swing and his myrmidons
Avere abroad in the counties, and could scarcely
be kept doAvn by yeomanry and poor laAA’-guard-
ians, the great toAvnswere in almost Avorse case.
Here, too, emigration had not yet set in to thin
the labor market ; Avages were falling, and prices
rising ; the corn-law struggle was better under-
stood and far keener than in the country ; and
Chartism aa'us gaining force every day, and ris-
ing into a huge threatening giant, Avaiting to put
forth his strength, and eager for the occasion
Avhich seemed at hand.

You generation of young Englishmen, Avho
Avere too young then to be troubled Avith such
matters, and have grown into manhood since,
yon little knoAv — may you neA-er knoAv ! — Avhat
it is to be living the citizens of a divided and
distracted nation. For the time that danger is
past. In a happy hour, and, so far as man can
judge, in time, and only just in time, came the
repeal of the corn laAA's, and the great cause of
strife and the sense of injustice 2iassed aAvay out

204:

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

of men’s minds. The nation was roused by the
Irish famine, and the fearful distress in. other
parts of the country, to begin looking steadily
and seriously at some of the sores which were
festering in its body, and undermining health
and life. And so the tide had turned, and Eng-
land had already passed the critical point, when
1848 came upon Christendom, and the whole of
Europe leaped up into a wild blaze of revolution.

Is any one still inclined to make light of the
danger that threatened England in that year, to
sneer at the 10th of April, and the monster peti-
tion, and the monster meetings on Kennington
and other commons ? Well, if there be such per-
sons among my readers, I can only say that they
can have known nothing of what was going on
around them and below them at that time, and I
earnestly hope that their vision has become clear-
er since then, and that they are not looking with
the same eyes, that see nothing, at the signs of to-
day. For that there are questions still to be solved
by us in England, in this current half-century,
quite as likely to tear the nation in pieces as
the corn laws, no man with half an eye in his
head can doubt. They may seem little clouds
like a man’s hand on the horizon just now, but
they will darken the whole heaven before long,
unless we can find wisdom enough among us to
take the little clouds in hand in time, and make
them descend in soft rain.

But such matters need not be spoken of here.
All I want to do is to put my younger readers
in a position to understand how it was that our
hero fell aavay into beliefs and notions at which
Mrs. Grundy and all decent jjeople could only
lift up eyes and hands in pious and respectable
horror, and became, soon after the incarceration
of his friend for night poaching, little better
than a physical-force Chartist at the age of
twenty-one.

CHAPTER XL.

HUE AND CRT.

At the end of a gusty wild October afternoon,
a man leading two horses was marching up and
down the little plot of short turf at the top of
the Hawk’s Lynch. Every now and then he
would stop on the brow of the hill to look over
the village, and seemed to be waiting for some-
body from that quarter. After being well blown,
he would turn to his promenade again, or go in
'under the clump of firs, through which the ris-
ing south-west wind, rushing up from the vale
below, was beginning to make a moan ; and,
hitching the horses to some stump or bush, and
patting and coaxing them to induce them, if so
might be, to stand quiet for a while, would try
to settle himself to leeward of one of the larger
trees.

But the fates were against all attempts at re-
pose. He had scarcely time to produce a cheroot
from his case and light it under many difficul-
ties, when the hoi'ses would begin fidgeting, and
pulling at their bridles, and shifting round to

get their tails to the wind. They clearly did
not understand the necessity of the position, and
were inclined to be moving stableward. So he
had to get up again, sling the bridles over his
arm, and take to his march up and down the
plot of turf ; now stopping for a moment or two
to try to get his cheroot to burn straight, and
pishing and pshawing over its perverseness ; now
■going again and again to the brow, and looking
along the road which led to the village, holding
his baton tight with one hand — for by this time
it was blowing half a gale of wind.

Though it was not yet quite the hour for his
setting, the sun had disappeared behind a heavy
bank of wicked slate-colored cloud, which look-
ed as though it were rising straight up into the
western heavens, while the wind whirled along
and twisted into quaint shapes a ragged rift of
light vapor, which went hurrying by, almost
touching the tops of the moaning firs. Alto-
gether an uncanny evening to be keeping tryst
at the top of a wild knoll ; and so thought our
friend with the horses, and showed it, too, clear-
ly enough, had any one been there to put a con-
struction on his impatient movements.

There was no one nearer than the village, of
which the nearest house was half a mile and
more away ; so, by way of passing the time, we
must exercise our privilege of putting into words
what he is half-thinking, half-muttering to him-
self :

“ A pleasant night I call this to be out on a
wild-goose chase ! If ever I saw a screaming
storm brewing, there it comes. I’ll be hanged
if I stop out here to be caught in it for all the
crack-brained friends I ever had in the world ;
and I seem to have a faculty for picking up
none but crack-brained ones. I wonder what
the plague can keep him so long ; he must have
been gone an hour. There — steady, steady,
old horse. Confound this weed ! What rascals
tobacconists are ! You never can get a cheroot
now worth smoking. Every one of them goes
spluttering up the side, or charring up the mid-
dle, and tasting like tow soaked in saltpetre and
tobacco juice. Well, I suppose I shall get the
real thing in India.

“ India ! In a month from to-day we shall be
off. To hear our senior major talk, one might
as Avell be going to the bottomless pit at once.
Well, he’ll sell out, that’s a comfort. Gives us
a step, and gets rid of an old ruffian. I don't
seem to care much what the place is like, if we
only get some work ; and there will be some work
there before long, by all accounts. No more
garrison-town life, at any rate. And if I have
any luck — a man may get a chance there.

“What the deuce can he be about? This
all comes of sentiment, now. Why couldn’t I
go quietly off to India without bothering up to
Oxford to see him? Not but what it’s a pleas-
ant place enough. I’ve enjoyed my three days
there uncommonly. Food and drink all that
can be wished, and plenty of good fellows and
fun. The look of the place, too, makes one
feel respectable. But, by George ! if their di-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

235

vinity is at all like their politics, they must turn
out a queer set of parsons — at least if Brown
picked up his precious notions at Oxford. He
always was a headstrong beggar. AVhat was it
he was holding forth about last night ? Let’s see.
‘The sacred right of insurrection.’ Yes, that
was it, and he talked as if he believed it all
too ; and, if there should be a row, which don’t
seem unlikely, by Jove! I think he’d act on it,
in the sort of temper he’s in. How about the
sacred right of getting hung or transported ? I
shouldn’t wonder to hear of tliat some day.
Gad I suppose he should be in for an install-
ment of his sacred right to-night. He’s capa-
ble of it, and of lugging me in with him.
What did he say we were come here for? To
got some fellow out of a scrape, he said — some
sort of poaching radical foster-brother of his,
who had been in jail, and deserved it too. I’ll
be bound. And we couldn’t go down quietly
into the village and put up at the public,
where I might have sat in the tap, and not run
the chance of having my skin blown over my
ears, and my teeth down my throat, on this
cursed look-out place, because he’s too well
known there. What does that mean ? Upon
my soul, it looks bad. They may be lynching
a J. P. down there, or making a spread-eagle
of the parish constable at this minute, for any
thing I know, and, as sure as fate, if they are,
I shall get my foot in it.

“It will read sweetly in the naval and mili-
tary intelligence — ‘A court-martial was held
this day at Chatham, president Colonel Smith,
of Her Majesty’s 101st Regiment, to try Henry
East, a lieutenant in the same distinguished
corps, who has been under arrest since the 10th
ult., for aiding and abetting the escape of a
convict, and taking part in a riot in the village
of Englebourn, in the county of Berks. The de-
fense of the accused v/as that he had a senti-
mental friendship for a certain Thomas Brown,
an under - graduate of St. Ambrose College,
Oxford, etc., etc.; and the sentence of the
court — ’

‘ ‘ Hang it ! It’s no laughing matter. Many
a fellow has been broken for not making half
such a fool of himself as I have done, coming
out here on this errand. I’ll tell T. B. a bit of
my mind, as, sure as —

“Hallo! didn’t I hear a shout? Only the
wind, I believe. How it does blow ! One of
these firs will be down, I expect, just now.
The storm will burst in a quarter of an hour.
Here goes ! I shall ride down into the village,
let what will come of it. Steady now, steady.
Stand still, you old fool ; can’t you — ?

“There, now I’m all right. Solomon said
something about a beggar on horseback. ’ Was
it Solomon, though ? Nevermind. He couldn’t
ride. Never had a horse till he was grown up.
But he said some uncommon wise things about
having nothing to do with such friends as T. B.
So, Harry East, if you please, no more tom-
foolery after to-day. You’ve got a whole skin,
and a lieutenant’s commission to make your

way in the world with, and are troubled with no
particular crotchets yourself that need ever get
you into trouble. So just you keep clear of
other people’s. And if your friends must be
mending the world, and poor man’s plastering,
and running their heads against stone walls,
why, just j'ou let go of their coat-tails.”

So muttering and meditating, Harry East
paused a moment after mounting, to turn uj)
the collar of the rough shooting-coat which he
was wearing, and button it up to the chin, be-
fore riding down the hill, when, in the hurly-
burly of the wind, a shout came spinning past
his ears, plain enough this time ; lie heard the
gate at the end of Englebourn Lane down be-
low him shut rvith a clang, and saw two men
running at full speed towards him, straight up
the hill.

“Oh! here you are at last,” he said, as he
watched them. “Well, you don’t lose your
time now. Somebody must be after them.
What’s he shouting and waving his hand for?
Oh, I’m to bring the cavalry supports down the
slope, I suppose. Well, here goes : he has
brought off his pal, the convict, I see :

‘Says he, you’ve ’scaped from transportation,

All upon the briny main ;

So never give way to no temptation,

And don’t get drunk nor prig again !’

There goes the gate again. By Jove ! what’s
that ? Dragoons, as I’m a sinner ! There’s
going to be the d — st beai-fight.”

Saying which, Harry East dug his heels into
his horse’s sides, holding him up sharply with
the curb at the same time, and in another mo-
ment was at the bottom of the solitary mound
on which he had been perched for the last hour,
and on the brow of the line of hill out of
which it rose so abruptly, just at the point for
which the two runners were making. He had
only time to glance at the pursuers, and saw that
one or two rode straight on the track of the
fugitives, while the rest skirted away along a
parish road which led up the hill-side by an
easier ascent, when Tom and his companion
were by his side. Tom seized the bridle of the
led horse, and was in the saddle with one
spring.

“ Jump up behind !” he shouted ; “now then,
come along.”

“Who are they ?” roared East — in that wind
nothing but a shout could be heard — pointing
over his shoulder with his thumb as they turned
to the heath.

“ Y’'eomanry.”

“After you ?”

Tom nodded, as they broke into a gallop, mak-
ing straight across the heath towards the Ox-
ford road. They were some quarter of a mile
in advance before any of their pursuers showed
over the brow of the hill behind them. It was
already getting dusk, and the great bank of
cloud was by this time all but upon them, mak-
ing the atmosphere denser and darker every
second. Then first one of the men appeared
who had ridden straight np the hill under the

206

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

Hawk’s Lynch, and, up for a moment,

caught sight of them and gave chase. Half a
minute later, and several of those who had kept
to the road were also in sight, some distance
away on the left, but still near enough to be un-
pleasant ; and they too, after a moment’s pause,
were in full pursuit. At first the fugitives held
their own, and the distance between them and
their pursuers was not lessened, but it was clear
that this could not last. Any thing that horse-
flesh is capable of, a real good Oxford hack,
such as they rode, will do ; but to carry two full-
grown men at the end of a pretty long day,
away from fresh horses and moderate weights,
is too much to expect even of Oxford horse-
flesh ; and the gallant beast which Tom rode
was beginning to show signs of distress when
they struck into the road. There was a slight dip
in the ground at this place, and a little farther
on the heath rose suddenly again, and the road
ran between high banks for a short distance.

As they reached this point they disappeared
for the moment from the yeomanry, and the
force of the wind was broken by the banks, so
that they could breathe more easily, and hear
one another’s voices.

Tom looked anxiously round at the lieuten-
ant, who shrugged his shoulders in answer to
the look, as he bent forward to ease his own
horse, and said :

“ Can’t last another mile.”

“ What’s to be done ?”

East again shrugged his shoulders, but said
nothing.

“I know. Master Tom,” said Harry Win-
burn.

“What?”

“ Pull up a bit, sir.”

Tom pulled up, and his horse fell into a w'alk
willingly enough, while East passed on a few
strides ahead. Harry Winburn sprang off.

“You ride on now, Master Tom,” he said;
“ I knows the heath well ; you let me bide.”
“No, no, Harry, not I. I won’t leave you
now ; so let them come, and be hanged.”

East had pulled up and listened to their
talk.

“Look here now,” he said to Harry; “put
your arm over the hind part of his saddle, and
run by the side ; you’ll find you can go as fast
as the horse. Now, you two push on, and
strike across the heath. I’ll keep the road and
take off this joker behind, who is the only dan-
gerous customer.”

“ That’s like you, old boy,” said Tom ; “ then
we’ll meet at the first public beyond the heath ;”
and they passed ahead in their turn, and turned
on to the heath, Harry running by the side, as
the lieutenant had advised.

East looked after them, and then put his
horse into a steady trot, muttering :

“Like me! yes, devilish like me; I know
that well enough. Didn’t I always play cat’s-
paw to his monkey at school ? But that convict
don’t seem such a bad lot, after all.”

Meantime Tom and Harry struck away over

the heath, as the darkness closed in and the
storm drove down. They stumbled on over
the charred furze roots, and splashed through
the sloppy peat cuttings, casting anxious, hasty
looks over their shoulders as they fled, straining
every nerve to get on, and longing for night and
the storm.

“Hark, wasn’t that a pistol-shot ?” said Tom,
as they floundered on. The sound came from
the road they had left.

“Look ! here’s some on ’em, then,” said Har-
ry ; and Tom was aware of two horsemen com-
ing over the brow of the hill on their left, some
three hundred yards to the rear. At the same
instant his horse stumbled, and came down on
his nose and knees. Tom went off over his
shoulder, tumbling against Harry, and sending
him headlong to the ground ; but, keeping hold
of the bridle, they were up again in a moment.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“ Come along, then,” and Tom was in the
saddle again, when the pursuers raised a shout.
They had caught sight of them now, and spurred
down the slope towards them. Tom was turn-
ing his horse’s head straight away, but Harry
shouted : “Keep to the left. Master Tom — to the
left, right on.”

It seemed like running into the lion’s jaws,
but he yielded, and they pushed on down the
slope on which they were. Another shout of
triumph rose on the howling wind ; Tom’s heart
sank within him. The enemy was closing on
them at every stride; another hundred yards,
and they must meet at the bottom of the slope.
What could Harry be dreaming of? The thought
had scarcely time to cross his brain, when down
went the two yeomen, horse and man, flounder-
ing in a bog above their horses’ girths. At the
same moment the storm burst on them, the driv-
ing mist and pelting rain. The chase was over.
They could not have seen a regiment of men at
fifty yards’ distance.

“You let me lead the horse. Master Tom,”
shouted Harry Winburn; “I knowed where
they was going; ’twill take they the best part
o’ the night to get out o’ that, I knows.”

“All right; let’s get back to the road, then,
as soon as we can,” said Tom, surrendering his
horse’s head to Harry, and turning up his col-
lar, to meet the pitiless deluge which was driv-
ing on their flanks. They were drenched to
the skin in two minutes ; Tom jumped off, and
plodded along on the opposite side of his horse
to Harry. They did not speak ; there w as very
little to be said, under the circumstances, and
a great deal to be thought about.

Harry Winburn probably knew the heath as
well as any man living, but even he had much
difficulty in finding his way back to the road
through that storm. However, after some half-
hour, spent in beating about, they reached it,
and turned their faces northward towards Ox-
ford. By this time night had come on ; but the
fury of the storm had passed over them, and the
moon began to show every now and then through

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

207

the driving clouds. At last Tom roused him-
self out of the brown study in which he had
been hitherto plodding along, and turned down
his coat collar, and shook himself, and looked
up at the sky and across at his companion, who
was still leading the horse along mechanically.
It was too dark to see his face, but his walk and
general look were listless and dogged. At last
Tom broke silence.

“You promised not to do any thing, after
you came out, without speaking to me.'” Har-
ry made no reply ; so presently he went on :

“I didn’t think you’d have gone in for such
a business as that to-night. I shouldn’t have
minded so much if it had only been machine-
breaking ; but robbing the cellar, and staving in
ale casks, and maiming cattle — ”

“I’d no hand in that,” interrupted Harry.
“I’m glad to hear it. You were certainly
leaning against the gate when I came up, and
taking no part in it; but you were one of the
leaders of the riot.”

“ He brought it on hisself,” said Harry, dog-
gedly.

“ Tester is a bad man, I know that ; and the
people have much to complain of ; but nothing
can justify what was done to-night.” Harry
made no answer.

“ You’re known, and they’ll be after you the
first thing in the morning. I don’t know what’s
to be done.”

“ ’Tis very little odds what happens to me.”
“ You’ve no right to say that, Harry. Your
friends — ”

“ I ain’t got no friends.”

“Well, Harry, I don’t think you ought to
say that, after what has happened to-night. I
don’t mean to say that my friendship has done
you much good yet ; but I’ve done what I could,
and — ”

“ So you hev’. Master Tom, so you hev’.”
“And I’ll stick by you through thick and
thin, Harry, But you must take heart and stick
by yourself, or we shall never pull you through.”
Harry groaned, and then, turning at once to
what was always uppermost in his mind, said :
“’Tis no good, now I’ve been in jail. Her
father wur alius agin me. And now, how be I
ever to hold up my head at whoam ? I seen
her once arter I came out.”

“Well, and what happened?” said Tom, af-
ter waiting a moment or two.

“She just turned red and pale, and was all
flustered like, and made as though she’d have
held out her hand ; and then tuk and hurried
off like a frighted hare, as though she heard
somebody a cornin’. Ah ! ’tis no good ! ’tis no
good !”

“ I don’t see any thing very hopeless in that,”
said Tom.

“I’ve knowed her since she wur that high,”
went on Harry, holding out his hand about as
high as the bottom of his waistcoat, without
noticing the interruption, “when her and I
went a gleanin’ together. ’Tis what I’ve
thought on, and lived for. ’Tis four year and

better since she and I broke a sixpence auver't.
And at times it sim’d as tho’ ’twould all cum
right, when my poor mother -wur livin’ — tho’
her never tuk to it kindly, motlicr didn’t. But
’tis all gone now ! and I be that mad wi’ my-
self, and mammered, and down, I be ready to
hang myself. Master Tom ; and if they just teks
and transpworts me — ”

“ Oh, nonsense, Hany ! You must keep out
of that. We shall think of some way to get you
out of that before morning. And you must get
clear away, and go to work on the railways or
somewhere. There’s nothing to be downheart-
ed about, as far as Batty is concerned.”

“ Ah ! ’tis they as wears it as knows where
the shoe pinches. You’d say different if ’twas
you. Master Tom.”

“ Should I ?” said Tom ; and, after pausing a
moment or two, he went on. “ What I’m go-
ing to say is in confidence. I’ve never told it to
any man yet, and only one has found it out.
Now, Harry, I’m much worse off than you at this
minute. Don’t I know where the shoe pinches !
Why, I haven’t seen— I’ve scarcely heard of — of
— well, of my sweetheart — there, you’ll under-
stand that — for this year and more. I don’t
know when I may see her again. I don’t know
that she hasn’t clean forgotten me. I don’t
know that she ever cared a straw for me. Now
you know quite well that you are better off than
that.”

“ I bean’t so sure o’ that, Master Tom. But
I be terrible vexed to hear about you.”

“Never mind about me. You say you’re not
sure, Harry. Come, now ; you said, not two
minutes ago, that you two had broken a six-
pence over it. What does that mean, now ?”

“ Ah ! but ’tis four years gone. Her’s bin a
leadin’ o’ me up and down, and a dancin’ o’ me
round and round purty nigh ever since, let alone
the time as she wur at Oxford, when — ”

“ Well, we won’t talk of that, Harry. Come,
will yesterday do for you ? If you thought she
was all right yesterday, would that satisfy
you ?”

“ Ees ; and summat to spare.”

“ You don’t believe it, I see. Well, why do
you think I came after you to-night? How
did I know what was going on ?”

“ That’s just what I’ve been a axin’ o’ my-
self as we cum along.”

“ Well, then, I’ll tell you. I came because I
got a note from her yesterday at Oxford.” Tom
paused, for he heard a muttered growl from the
other side of the horse’s head, and could see,
even in the fitful moonlight, the angry toss of
the head with which his news was received.
“ I didn’t expect this, Harry,” he went on
presently, “after what I told you just now
about myself. It was a hard matter to tell it
at all ; but, after telling you, I didn’t think you’d
suspect me any more. However, perhaps I’ve
deserved it. So, to go on with what I was say-
ing, two years ago, when I came to my senses
about her, and before I cared for any one else,
I told her to write if ever I could do her a serv-

208

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

Ice. Any thing that a man could do for his
sister I was bound to do for her, and I told her
so. She never answ'ered till yesterday, when I
got this note,” and he dived into the inner
breast-pocket of his shooting-coat. “If it isn’t
soaked to pulp, it’s in my pocket now. Yes,
here it is,” and he produced a dirty piece of
paper and handed it across to his companion.
“M’lien there’s light enough to read it, you’ll
see plain enough what she means, though your
name is not mentioned.”

Having finished his statement, Tom retired
into himself, and walked along watching the
hurrying clouds. After they had gone some
hundred yards, Harry cleared his throat once or
twice, and at last brought out,

“ Master Tom.”

“Well.”

“You bean’t offended wi’ me, sir, I hopes ?”
“ No ; why should I be offended ?”

“ ’Cause I knows I be so all-fired jealous, I
can’t abear to hear o’ her talkin’, let alone writ-
in’ to — ”

“Out with it. To me, you were going to
say.”

“ Nay, ’tis mwore nor that.”

“ All right, Harry ; if you only lump me with
the rest of mankind, I don’t care. But you
needn’t be jealous of me, and you mustn’t be
jealous of me, or I shan’t be able to help you as
I want to do. I’ll give you hand and word on
it, as man to man, there’s no thought in my
heart towards her that you mightn’t see this
minute. Do you believe me ?”

“ Ees, and you’ll forgie — ”

“ There’s nothing to forgive, Hanw. But
now you’ll allo\y your case isn’t such a bad one.
She must keep a good look-out after you, to
know what you were likely to be about to-day.
And if she didn’t care for you she wouldn’t have
written to me. That’s good sense, I think.”
Harry assented, and then Tom went into a
consideration of what was to be done, and, as
usual, fair castles began to rise in the air.
Harry was to start down the line at once and
take work on the railway. In a few weeks he
would be captain of a gang, and then what Avas
to hinder his becoming a contractor and making
his fortune, and buying a farm of his own at
Englebourn ? To all which Harry listened with
open ears, till they got off the heath and came
upon a small hamlet of some half-dozen cottages
scattered along the road.

“ There’s a public here, I suppose,” said Tom,
returning to the damp realities of life. Harry
indicated the humble place of entertainment for
man and horse.

“ That’s all right. I hope we shall find my
friend here and they W'ent towards the light
Avhich was shining temptingly through the lat-
ticed window of the road-side inn.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE lieutenant’s sentiments and problems.

“ Stop ! It looks so bright there must be
something going on. Surely the yeomanry can
never have come on here already ?”

Tom laid his hand on the bridle, and they
halted on the road opposite the public-house,
which lay a little back, with an open space of
ground before it. The sign-post, and a long
water-trough for the horses of guests to drink
at, were pushed forward to the side of the road
to intimate the whereabouts of the house, and
the hack which Harry led wms already drinking
eagerly.

“ Stay here for a minute, and I'll go to the
window and see what's up inside. It’s very un-
lucky, but it will never do for us to go in if there
are any people there.”

Tom stole softly up to the AvindoAv out of
which the light came. A little scrap of a cur-
tain was drawn across a portion of it, but he
could see easily into the room on either side of
the curtain. The first glance comforted him,
for he saw at once that there was only one per-
son in tbe kitchen ; but who and tvhat he might
bo was a puzzle. The only thing tvhich W'as
clear at a first glance was, that he was making
himself at home.

The room Avas a moderate-sized kitchen, Avith
a sanded floor, and a large fire-place ; a high
Avooden screen, with a narroAV seat in front of it,
ran along the side on Avhich the door from the
entrance-passage opened. In the middle there
Avas a long, rough walnut table, on which stood
a large loaf, some cold bacon and cheese, and a
yelloAV jug ; a fcAV heavy rush-bottomed chairs
and a settle composed the rest of the furniture.
On the Avail Avere a few samplers, a Avarming-
pan, and shelves Avith some common delf plates,
and cups and saucers. But though the furni-
ture Avas meagre enough, the kitchen had a look
of Avondrous comfort for a drenched mortal
outside. Tom felt this keenly, and, after a
glance round, fixed his attention on the happy
occupant, Avith the vieAV of ascertaining Avhether
he Avould be a safe person to intrude on under
the circumstances. He Avas seated on a Ioav
three-cornered oak seat, Avith his back to the
AvindoAv, steadying a furze fagot on the fire Avith
the poker. The fagot blazed and crackled, and
roared up the chimney, sending out the bright,
flickering light Avhich had attracted them, and
forming a glorious top to the gloAving clear fire
of Avood embers beneath, into Avhich Avas insert-
ed a long, funnel-shaped tin, out of Avhich the
figure helped himself to some Avarm compound
Avhen he had settled the fagot to his satisfaction.
He Avas enveloped as to his shoulders in a heavy,
dirty-Avhite coat, Avith huge cape and high col-
lar, Avhich hid the back of bis head, such as Avas
then in use by country carriers ; but the gar-
ment Avas much too short for him, and his bare
arms came out a foot beyond the end of the
sleeA-es. The rest of his costume Avas even more
eccentric, being nothing more nor less than a

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

200

coarse flannel petticoat ; and his bare feet rest-
ed on the mat in front of the fire.

Tom felt a sudden doubt as to his sanity,
which doubt was apparently shared by the wid-
ow woman, who kept the house, and her maid-
of-alUwork, one or other of whom might be seen
constantly keeping an eye on their guest from
behind the end of the wooden screen. How-
ever, it was no time to be over-particular ; they
must rest before going farther, and, after all, it
was only one man. So Tom thought, and was
just on the point of calling Harry to come on,
when the figure turned round towards the win-
dow, and the face of the lieutenant disclosed it-
self between the high-peaked gills of the car-
rier’s coat. Tom burst out into a loud laugh,
and called out,

“It’s all right, come along.”

“ I’ll just look to the bosses, Master Tom.”

‘ ‘ Very well, and then come into the kitchen
saying which, he hurried into the house, and af-
ter tumbling against the maid-of-all-work in the
passage, emerged from behind the screen.

“Well, here we are at last, old fellow,” he
said, slapping East on the shoulder.

“ Oh, it’s you, is it ? I thought you were in
the lock-up by this time.”

East’s costume, as he sat looking up, with a
hand on each knee, was even more ridiculous on
a close inspection, and Tom roared with laugh-
ter again.

“ I don’t see the joke,” said East, without
moving a muscle.

“You would, though, if you could see your-
self. You wonderful old Guy, where did you
pick up that toggery?”

“The late lamented husband of the widow
Higgs, our landlady, was the owner of the coat.
He also bequeathed to her several pairs of
breeches, which I have vainly endeavored to
get into. The late lamented Higgs was an
abominably small man. He must have been
very much her worse half. So, in default of
other clothing, the widow has kindly obliged me
by the loan of one of her own garments.”

“ Where are your own clothes ?”

“There,” .said East, pointing to a clothes-
horse, which Tom had not hitherto remarked,
which stood well into the chimney - corner ;
“and they are dry, too,” he went on, feeling
tliem ; “ at least the flannel shirt and trowsers
are ; so I’ll get into them again.”

“I say, ma’am,” he called out, addressing the
screen, “I’m going to change my things. So
you had better not look in just now. In fact,
we can call now, if we want any thing.”

At this strong hint the widow Pliggs was
heard bustling away behind the screen, and after
her departure East got into some of his own
clothes again, offering the cast-off garments of
the Higgs family to Tom, who, however, de-
clined, contenting himself with taking off his
coat and waistcoat, and hanging them upon the
horse. He had been blown comparatively dry
in the last half-hour of his walk.

While East was making his toilet, Tom turn-
U

ed to the table, and made an assault on the
bread and bacon, and then poured himself out
a glass of beer and began to drink it, but was
pulled up half-way, and put it down with a face
all drawn up into puckers by its sharpness.

“I thought you wouldn’t appreciate the wid-
ow’s tap,” said East, watching him with a grin.
“Regular whistle-belly vengeance, and no mis-
take ! Here, I don’t mind giving you some of
my compound, though you don’t deserve it.”

So Tom drew his chair to the fire, and smack-
ed his lips over the the long-necked glass which
East handed to him.

“ Ah ! that’s not bad tipple after such a duck-
ing as we’ve had. Dog’s-nose, isn’t it ?”

East nodded.

“Well, old fellow, I say you are the best
hand I know at making the most of your oppor-
tunities. I don’t know of any one else who
could have made such a good brew out of that
stuff and a drop of gin.”

East was not to be mollified by any such com-
pliment.

“ Have you got many more such jobs as to-
day’s on hand ? I should think they must inter-
fere with reading.”

“ No. But I call to-day’s a real good job.”
“Da you? I don’t agree. Of course it’s a
matter of taste. I have the honor of holding
Her Majesty’s commission ; so I may be preju-
diced, perhaps.”

“ What difference does it make whose com-
mission you hold ? You wouldn’t hold any
commission, I know, which would bind you to
be a tyrant and oppress the weak and the poor.”
“ Humbug about your oppressing? Who is
the tyrant, I should like to know — the farmer, or
the mob that destroys his property? I don’t
call Swing’s mob the weak and the poor.”
“That’s all very well ; but I should like to
know how you’d feel if you had no work and a
starving family. You don’t know what people
have to suffer. The only wonder is that all the
country isn’t in a blaze ; and it will be, if things
last as they are much longer. It must be a bad
time which makes such men as Harry Winburn
into rioters.”

“I don’t know any thing about Harry Win-
burn. But I know there’s a good deal to be said
on the yeomanry side of the question.”

“Well, now. East, just consider this — ”

“ No, I’m not in the humor for considering.
I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Yes, that’s always the way. You won’t
hear what a fellow’s got to say, and then set
him down for a mischievous fool because he
won’t give up beliefs founded on the evidence
of his own eyes, and ears, and reason.”

“ I don’t quarrel with any of your beliefs.
You’ve got ’em — I haven’t — that’s just the dif-
ference between us. You’ve got some sort of
faith to fall back upon, in equality, and brothei'-
hood, and a lot of cursed nonsense of that kind.
So, I dare say, you could drop down into a nav-
igator, or a shoe-black, or something in that way
to-morrow, and think it ]:leasant. You might

210

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

rather enjoy a trip across the water at the ex-
pense of your country, like your friend the con-
vict here.”

“ Don’t talk such rot, man. In the first
place, he isn’t a convict — you know that well
enough.”

“ He is just out of prison, at any rate. How-
ever, this sort of thing isn’t my line of country
at all. So the next time you want to do a bit
of jail delivery on your own hook, don’t ask me
to help you.”

“ Well, if I had known all that was going to
happen, I wouldn’t have asked you to come, old
fellow. Come, give us another glass of your
dog’s-nose, and no more of your sermon, which
isn’t edifying.”

The lieutenant filled the long-necked glass
which Tom held out with the creaming mixture,
which he was nursing in the funnel-shaped tin.
But he was not prepared to waive his right to
lecture, and so continued, while Tom sipped his
liquor with much relish, and looked comically
across at his old school-fellow.

“Some fellows have a call to set the world
right — I haven’t. My gracious sovereign pays
me seven-and-sixpence a day ; for which sum I
undertake to be shot at on certain occasions
and by proper persons, and I hope, when the
time comes, I shall take it as well as another.
But that doesn’t include turning out to be pot-
ted at like a woodcock on your confounded
Berkshire wilds by a turnip-headed yeoman.
It isn’t to be done at the figure.”

“ What in the world do you mean ?”

“I mean just what I say.”

“ That one of those unspeakable yeomanry
has been shooting at you ?”

“ Just so.”

“ No, you don’t really mean it ? Wh-e-e-w !
Then that shot we heard was fired at you?
’Pon my honor I’m very sorry.”

“Much good your sorrow would have done
me if your precious countryman had held
straight.”

“Well, what can I say more. East? If
there’s any thing I can do to show you that I
really am very sorry and ashamed at having
brought you into such a scrape, only tell me
what it is.”

“I don’t suppose your word would go for
much at the Horse Guards, or I’d ask you to
give me a character for coolness under fire.”

“ Come, I see you’re joking now, old fellow.
Do tell us how it happened.”

“Well, when you tuimed off across the com-
mon I pulled up for half a minute, and then
held on at a steady slow trot. If I had pushed
on ahead, my friends behind would have been
just as likely to turn after you as after me.
Presently I heard Number One coming tearing
along behind ; and as soon as he got from be-
tween the banks, he saw me, and came straight
after me down the road. You were well away
to the left, so now I just clapped on a bit, to
lead him farther away from the right scent, and
on he came, whooping and hallooing to me to

pull up. I didn’t see why I hadn’t just as good
a right to ride along the road at my own pace
as he ; so the more he shouted, the more I
didn’t stop. But the beggar had the legs of
me. He was mounted on something deuced
like a thoroughbred, and gained on me hand-
over-hand. At last, when I judged he must be
about twenty yards behind, I thought I might
as well have a look at him — so I just turned
for a moment, and, by Jove ! there w^as my lord,
lugging a pistol out of his right holster. He
shouted again to me to stop. I turned, ducked
my head, and the next moment he pulled trig-
ger, and missed me.”

“ And what happened then ?” said Tom, draw-
ing a long breath.

“Why, I flatter myself I showed considerable
generalship. If I had given him time to get at
his other pistol, or his toasting-fork, it was all
up. I dived into my pocket, where by good
luck there was some loose pow'der, and copper
caps, and a snuff-box ; upset the snuff, grabbed
a handful of the mixture, and pulled hard at my
horse. Next moment he was by my side, lift-
ing his pistol to knock me over. So I gave him
the mixture right in his face, and let him go by.
Up went both his hands, and away went he and
his horse, somewhere over the common out of
sight. I just turned round and walked quietly
back. I didn’t see the fun of accepting any
more attacks in rear. Then up rides Number
Two, a broad-faced young farmer on a big gray
horse, blowing like a grampus. He pulled up
short when we met, and stared, and I walked
past him. You never saw a fellow look more
puzzled ; I had regularly stale-mated him.
However, he took heart, and shouted, ‘ Had I
met the Captain ?’ I said, ‘ A gentleman had
ridden by on a bright bay.’ ‘ That was he ;
which way had he gone ?’ So I pointed gener-
ally over the common, and Number Two de-
parted; and then down came the storm, and I
turned again, and came on here.”

“The Captain ! It must have been Wurley,
then, who fired at you.”

“I don’t know who it was. I only hope he
won’t be blinded.”

“It’s a strange business altogether,” said
Tom, looking into the fire ; “I scarcely know
what to think of it. We should never have
pulled through but for you, that’s certain.”

“I know what to think of it well enough,”
said East. “But now let’s hear what happen-
ed to you. They didn’t catch you, of course ?”
“ No, but it was touch and go. I thought it
was all up at one time, for Harry would turn
right across their line. But he knew what he
was about ; there was a bog between us, and
they came on right into it, and we left them
floundering.”

“The convict seems to have his head about
him, then. Where is he, by-the-way? I’m,
curious to have a look at him.”

“Looking after the horses. I’ll call him in.
He ought to have something to drink.”

Tom went to the door and called Harry, who

TOM bro\v:n at OXFOUI).

211

came out from the rough shed which served as
a stable, in his shirt, with a wisp of hay in his
hand. He had stripped off coat, and waistcoat,
and braces, and had been warming himself by
giving tlie horses a good dressing.

“Why, Harry, you haven’t had any thing,”
said Tom ; “come across, and have a glass of
something hot.”

Harry followed into the kitchen, and stood
by the end of the screen, looking rather uncom-
fortable, while Tom poured him out a glass of
the hot mixture, and the lieutenant looked him
over with keen eyes.

“ There, take that off. How are the horses ?”
“ Pretty fresh. Master Tom. But they’d be
the better of a bran mash, or somethin’ cumfa-
ble. Pve spoke to the missus about it, and ’tis
ready to put on the fire.”

“That’s right, then. Let them have it as
quick as you can.”

“Then I med fetch it and warm it up here,
sir ?” said Harry.

“ To be sure ; the sooner the better.”

Harry took off his glass, making a shy sort
of duck with his head, accompanied by “Your
health, sir,” to each of his entertainers, and then
disappeared into the back-kitchen, returned with
the mash, which he put on the fire, and went
off to the stable again.

“ What do you think of him ?” said Tom.

“ I like to see a fellow let his braces down
when he goes to work,” said East.

“It’s not every fellow who would be strap-
ping away at those horses, instead of making
himself at home in the back-kitchen.”

“ No, it isn’t,” said East.

“ Don’t you like his looks now ?”

“ He’s not a bad sort, your convict.”

“ I say, I wish you wouldn’t call him names.”
“ Very good ; your unfortunate friend, then.
What are you going to do with him ?”

“That’s just what I’ve been puzzling about
all the way here : what do you think ?” And
then they drew to the fire again and began to
talk over Harry’s prospects. In some ten min-
utes he returned to the kitchen for' the mash,
and this time drew a complimentary remark
from the lieutenant.

Harry was passionately fond of animals, and
especially of horses, and they found it out quick-
ly enough, as they always do. The two hacks
were by this time almost fresh again, with dry
coats, and feet M^ell washed and cleansed ; and,
while working at them, Harry had been think-
ing over all he had heard that evening, and
what with the work and what with his thoughts,
found himself getting more hopeful every min-
ute. No one who had seen his face an hour
before on the heath would have believed it was
the same man who was now patting and fond-
ling the two hacks as they disposed of the mash
he had pi’epared for them. He leaned back
against the manger, rubbing the ears of Tom’s
hack — the one which had carried double so well
in their first flight — gently with his two hands,
while the delighted beast bent down its head

and pressed it against him, and stretched its
neck, expressing in all manner of silent ways its
equine astonishment and satisfaction. By the
light of a single dip Harry’s face grew shorter
and shorter, until at last a quiet humorous look
began to creep back into it.

As we have already taken the liberty of ])ut-
ting the thoughts of his betters into words, we
must now do so for him ; and, if he had express-
ed his thoughts in his own vernacular as he
rubbed the hack’s ears in the stable, his speech
would have been much as follows :

“How dims it as I be all changed like, as
tho’ sum un had tuk and rubbed all the down-
heartedness out o’ me ? Here I be, two days out
o’ jail, wi’ nothin’ in the world but the things I
stands in — for in course I med just give up the
bits o’ things as is left at Daddy Collins’s — and
they all draggled wi’ the wet — and I med be tuk
in the mornin’ and sent across the water — and
yet I feels sumhow as peert as a yukkel. So
fur as I can see, ’tis jest nothin’ but talkin’ wi’
our Master Tom. What a fine thing ’tis to be
a schollard. And yet seemin’ly ’tis nothin’ but
talk, arter all’s said and done. But ’tis alius
the same ; whenever I gets talkin’ wi’ he, it ail
dims out as smooth as crame. Fust time as
ever I seen him since we wur bwys he talked
just as a do now; and then my poor mother
died. Then he cum in arter the funeral and
talked me up agen, till I thought as I wur to
hev our cottage and all the land as I could do
good by. But our cottage wur took away, and
my ’lotment besides. Then cum last summer,
and ’twur just the same agen arter his talk, but
I got dree months auver that job. And now
here I be wi’ un agen, a runnin’ from the con-
stable, and like to be tuk up and transpworted,
and ’tis just the same — and I s’pose ’twill be
just the same if ever I gets back, and sees un,
and talks wi’ un, if I be gwine to be hung. ’Tis
a wunnerful think to be a schollard, to be able
to make things look all straight wh.en they be
ever so akkerd and unked.”

And then Harry left off rubbing the horse’s
ears ; and, pulling the damp piece of paper which
Tom had given him out of his breeches’ pock-
et, proceeded to flatten it out tenderly on tlie
palm of his hand, and read it by the light of the
dip, when the landlady came to inform him
that the gentlefolk wanted him in the kitchen.
So he folded his treasure up again, and went
off to the kitchen. He found Tom standing
with his back to the fire, while the lieutenant
was sitting at the table writing on a scrap of
paper which the landlady had produced after
much hunting over of drawers. Tom began,
with some little hesitation ;

“ Oh, Harry, I’ve been talking your matters
over with my friend here, and I’ve changed my
mind. It won’t do, after all, for you to stay
about at railway work, or any thing of that sort.
You see you wouldn’t be safe. They’d be sure
to trace you, and you’d get into trouble about
this day’s work. And then, after all, it’s a very
poor opening for a young fellow like you. Now

212

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

why shouldn’t you enlist into Mr. East’s regi-
ment? You’ll be in his company, and it’s a
splendid profession. What do you say now ?”
East looked up at poor Harry, who was quite
taken aback at this change in his prospects, and
could only mutter that he had never turned his
mind to “ sodgerin.”

“It’s just the thing for you,” Tom went on.
“You can write and keep accounts, and you’ll
get on famously. Ask Mr. East if you Avon’t.
And don’t you fear about matters at home.
You’ll see that’ll all come right. I’ll pledge
you my word it will, and I’ll take care that you
shall hear every thing that goes on there ; and,
depend upon it, it’s your best chance. You’ll
be back at Englebourn as a sergeant in no time,
and be able to snap your fingers at them all.
You’ll come with us to Steventon station, and
take the night train to London, and then in the
morning go to Whitehall, and find Mr. East’s
sergeant. He’ll give you a note to him, and
they’ll send you on to Chatham, where the regi-
ment is. You think it’s the best thing for him,
don’t you ?” said Tom, turning to East.

“ Yes ; I think you’ll do very well if yon only
keep steady. Here’s a note to the sergeant, and
I shall be back at Chatham in a day or two my-
self.”

Harry took the note mechanically; he Avas
quite unable yet to make any resistance.

“ And noAV get something to eat as quick as
you can, for Ave ought to be off. The horses
are all right, I suppose ?”

“Yes, Master Toro,” said Harry, Avith an
appealing look.

“ Where are your coat and Avaistcoat, Harry ?”
“They be in the stable, sir.”

“ In the stable ! Why they’re all Avet, then,
still ?”

“ Oh, ’tis no odds about that. Master Tom.”
“ No odds ! Get them in directly, and put
them to dry here.”

So Harry Winburn went off to the stable to
fetch his clothes.

“He’s a fine fellow,” said East, getting up
and coming to the fire ; “I’ve taken a fancy to
him, but he doesn’t fancy enlisting.”

“ Poor felloAV ! he has to leave his SAveetheart.
It’s a sad business, but it’s the best thing for
him, and you’ll see he’ll go.”

Tom Avas right. Poor Harry came in and
dried his clothes, and got his supper ; and while
he AA^as eating it, and all along the road after-
Avards, till they reached the station at about
elcA^en o’clock, pleaded in his plain Avay Avith
Tom against leaving his OAvn country-side.
And East listened silently, and liked him bet-
ter and better.

Tom argued Avith him gently, and turned the
matter round on all sides, putting the most
hopeful face upon it; and, in the end, talked
first himself, and then Harry, into the belief
that it Avas the very best thing tliat could have
happened to him, and more likely than any
other course of action to bring CA’cry tiling right
between him and all folk at Englebourn.

So Harry got into the train at Steventon in
pretty good heart, Avith his fare paid, and half
a sovereign in his pocket, more and more im-
pressed in his mind with what aAvonderful thing
it was to be “a schollard.”

The tAvo friends rode back to Oxford at a
good pace. They had both of them quite
enough to think about, and were not in the
humor for talk, had place and time served, so
that scarce a Avord passed between them till thev
had left their horses at the livery-stables, and
were walking through the silent streets, a feAv
minutes before midnight. Then East broke
silence.

“ I can’t make out hoAv you do it. I’d give
half a year’s pay to get the Avay of it.”

“The Avay of Avhat? What are you talking
about?”

“Why, your AA-ay of shutting your eyes, and
going in blind.”

“Well, that’s a queer Avish for a fighting
man,” said Tom, laughing. “We ahvays
thought a rusher no good at school, and that
the thing to learn Avas to go in Avith your OAvn
eyes open, and shut up other people’s.”

“ Ah ! but Ave hadn’t cut our eye-teeth then.

I look at these things from a professional point
of A'icAV. My business is to get fellows to shuti^
their eyes tight, and I begin to think you can’t
do it as it should be done Avithout shutting your
own first.”

“I don’t take.”

“ Why, look at the way you talked your con-
vict— I beg your pardon — your unfortunate
friend — into enlisting to-night. You talked as
if you believed CA’ery word you Avere saying to
him.”

“So I did.”

“Well, I should like to haA'e you for a re-
cruiting-sergeant, if you could only drop that
radical bosh. If I had had to do it, instead of
enlisting, he Avould have gone straight off and
hung himself in the stable.”

“I’m glad you didn’t try your hand at it,
then.”

“ Look again at me. Do you think any one
but such a — Avell, I don’t Avant to say any thing
uncivil — a headlong dog like you could liaA'c
got me into such a business as to-day’s? Now
I wan’t to be able to get other felloAvs to make
just such fools of themselves as I’Am made of
myself to-day. Hoav do you do it ?”

“I don’t knew, unless it is that I can’t help
always looking at the best side of things, my-
self, and so — ”

“ Most things haA'en’t got a best side.”

“ Well, at the pretty good side, then.”

“Nor a pretty good one.”

“ If they haA'en’t got a pretty good one, it don’t
matter hoAV you look at them, I should think.”
“No, I don’t believe it does — much. Still,

I should like to be able to make a fool of my-
self, too, Avhen I Avant — Avith the view of getting
others to do ditto, of course.”

‘ ‘ I Avish I could help you, old felloAV ; but I
don’t sec my Avay to it.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

213

“I shall talk to our regimental doctor about
it, and get put through a course of fool’s-diet
before we start for India.”

“Flap-doodle, they call it, what fools arc fed
on. But it’s odd that you should have broken
out in this place, when all the way home I’ve
been doing nothing but envying you your spe-
cial talent.”

“What’s that ?”

“Just the opposite one — the art of falling
on your feet. I should like to exchange with
you.”

“You’d make a precious bad bargain of it,
then.”

“There’s twelve striking. I must knock in.
Good-night. You’ll be round to breakfast at
nine.”

“All right. I believe in your breakfasts,
rather,” said East, as they shook hands at the
gate of St. Ambrose, into which Tom disap-
peared, while the lieutenant strolled back to
the Mitre.

CHAPTER XLII.

THIRD YEAR.

East returned to his regiment in a few days,
and at the end of the month the gallant 101st
embarked for India. Tom wrote several let-
ters to the lieutenant, inclosing notes to Harry,
with gleanings of news from Englebourn, where
his escape on the night of the riot had been a
nine-days’ wonder ; and, now that he was fair-
ly “ ’listed” and out of the way, public opinion
was beginning to turn in his favor. In due
course a letter arrived from the lieutenant,
dated Cape Town, giving a prosperous account
of the voyage so far. East did not say m.uch
about “your convict,” as he still insisted on
calling Harry ; but the little he did say was
very satisfactory, and Tom sent off this part of
the letter to Katie, to whom he had confided
the whole story, entreating her to make the
best use of it in the interests of the young sol-
dier. And, after this out-of-the-way beginning,
he settled down into the usual routine of his
Oxford life.

The change in his opinions and objects of
interest brought him now into more intimate
relations with a set of whom he had as yet seen
little. For want of a better name, we may call
them “the party of progress.” At their par-
ties, instead of practical jokes, and boisterous
mirth, and talk of boats, and bats, and guns,
and horses, the highest and deepest questions
of morals, and politics, and metaphysics, were
discussed, and discussed with a freshness and
enthusiasm which is apt to wear off v/hen doing
has to take the place of talking, but has a
strange charm of its own while it lasts, and is’
looked back to with loving regret by those for
whom it is no longer a possibility.

With this set Tom soon fraternized, and
drank in many new ideas, and took to himself
also many new crotchets besides those with

which he was already weighted. Almost all
his new acquaintance wqi-e Liberal in politics,
but a few only were ready to go all lengths with
him. They wore all Union men, and Tom, of
course, followed the fashion, and soon pro-
pounded theories in that institution which
gained him the name of Chartist Brown.

Thei’e was, a strong mixture of self-conccit in
it all. He had a kind of idea that he had dis-
covered something which it was creditable to
have discovered, and that it was a very fine
thing to have all these feelings for, and sympa-
thies with, “ the masses,” and to believe in de-
mocracy, and “glorious humanity,” and “a
good time coming,” and I know not what oth-
er big matters. And although it startled and
pained him at first to hear himself called ugly
names, which he had hated and despised from
his youth up, and to know that many of his old
acquaintance looked upon him, not simply as a
madman, but as a madman with snobbish pro-
clivities ; yet, when the first plunge was over,
there -was a good deal, on the other hand, which
tickled his vanity, and was far from being un-
pleasant.

To do him justice, however, the disagreeables
were such that, had there not been some genu-
ine belief at the bottom, he would certainly have
been headed back very speedily into the fold of
political and social orthodoxy. As it was,
amidst the cloud of sophisms, and platitudes,
and big one-sided ideas half-mastered, which
filled his thoughts and overflowed in his talk,
there was growing in him and taking firmer
hold on him daily a true and broad sympathy
for men as men, and especially for poor men as
poor men, and a righteous and burning hatred
against all laws, customs, or notions which, ac-
cording to his light, either were or seemed to be
setting aside, or putting any thing else in the
place of, or above the man. It was with him
the natural outgrowth of the child’s and boy^'s
training (though his father would have been
much astonished to be told so), and the instincts
of those early days were now getting rapidly set
into habits and faiths, and becoming a part of
himself.

• In this stage of his life, as in so many former
ones, Tom got great help from his intercourse
with Hard}', now the rising tutor of the college.
Hardy was travelling much the same road him-
self as our hero, but was somewhat farther on,
and had come into it from a different country
and through quite other obstacles. Their early
lives had been so different; and, both by nature
and from long and severe self-restraint and
discipline, Flardy was much the less impetuous
and demonstrative of the two. He did not
rush out, therefore (as Tom was too much in-
clined to do), the moment he had seized hold
of the end of a new idea -which he felt to be
good for him and what he wanted, and brandish
it in the face of all comers, and think himself a
traitor to the truth if he wasn’t trying to make
every body he met with eat it. Hardy, on the
contrary, would test his new idea, and turn it

214

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

over, and prove it as far as he could, and try to
get hold of the whole <of it, and ruthlessly strip
off any tinsel or rose-pink sentiment with which
it might happen to be mixed up.

Often and often did Tom suffer under this
severe method, and rebel against it, and accuse
his friend, both to his face and in his own secret
thoughts, of coldness, and want of faith, and all
manner of other sins of omission and commis-
sion. In the end, however, he generally came
round, with more or less of rebellion, according
to the severity of the treatment, and acknowl-
edge that, when Hardy brought him down from
riding the high hoi'se, it was not Avithout good
reason, and that the dust in which he was
rolled was always most wholesome dust.

For instance, there was no phrase more fre-
quently in the mouths of the party of progress
than “the good cause.” It was a fine big-
sounding phrase, which could be used with
great effect in perorations of speeches at the
Union, and was sufficiently indefinitb to be
easily defended from ordinary attacks, while it
saved him who used it the trouble of ascertain-
ing accurately for himself or settling for his
hearers what it really did mean. But, however
satisfactory it might be before piromiscuous au-
diences, and so long as vehement assertion or
declaration was all that W'as required to uphold
it, this same “good cause” was liable to come
to much grief w'hen it had to get itself defined.
Hardy Avas particularly given to persecution on
this subject, Avhen he could get Tom, and per-
haps one or two others, in a quiet room by
themseh^es. While professing the utmost sym-
pathy for “ the good cause,” and a hope as
strong as theirs that all its enemies might find
themselves suspended to lamp-posts as soon as
jrossible, he Avould pursue it into corners from
Avhich escape Avas most difficult, asking it and
its supporters Avhat it exactly Avas, and driving
them from one cloud-land to another, and from
“the good cause” to the “people’s cause,”
“the cause of labor,” and other like trouble-
some definitions, until the great idea seemed to
have no shape or existence any longer even in
their own brains.

But Hardy’s persecution, proAmking as it Avas
for the time, never went to the undermining of
any real conviction in the minds of his juniors,
or the shaking of anything Avhich did not need
shaking, but only helped them to clear their
ideas and brains as to Avhat they Avere talking
and thinking about, and gave them glimpses —
soon clouded OA'er again, but most useful, neA'-
crtheless — of the truth that there Avere a good
many knotty questions to be solved before a
man could be quite sure that he had found out
the Avay to set the world thoroughly to rights,
and heal all the ills that flesh is heir to.

Hardy treated another of his friend’s most
favorite notions even Avith less respect than this
one of “ the good cause.” Democracy, that
“universal democracy” which their favorite
author had recently declared to bo “ an inevi-
table fact of the days in Avhich avc IIa-c,” Avas

perhaps, on the Avhole, the pet idea of the small
section of liberal young Oxford with Avhom Tom
Avas noAv hand and glove. They lost no op-
portunity of Avorshipping it and doing battle for
it ; and, indeed, did most of them very truly
believe that that state of the Avorld Avhich this
universal democracy Avas to bring about, and
Avhich Avas coming no man could say hoAV soon,
was to be, in fact, that age of peace and good-
will Avhich men had dreamed of in all times,
Avhen the lion should lie down Avith the kid, and
nation should not vex nation any more.

After hearing something to this effect from
Tom on several occasions. Hardy cunningly
lured him to his rooms on the pretense of talk-
ing over the prospects of the boat-club, and then,
having seated him by the fire, Avhich he himself
proceeded to assault gently Avith the poker, pro-
pounded suddenly to him the question,

“ BroAvn, I should like to knoAV what you
mean by ‘ democracy ?’ ”

Tom at once saAv the trap into which he had
fallen, and made several efforts to break away,
but unsuccessfully ; and, being seated to a cup
of tea and alloAved to smoke, was then and there
grieA’ously oppressed, and mangled, and sat
upon, by his oldest and best friend. He took his
ground carefully, and propounded only Avhat he
felt sure that Hardy himself Avould at once ac-
cept— Avhat no man of any Avorth could pos-
sibly take exception to. “He meant much
more,” he said, “ than this ; but for the present
purpose it Avould be enough for him to say that,
Avhatever else it might mean, democracy in his
mouth alAvays meant that every man should have
a share in the gOA^ernment of his country.”
Hardy, seeming to acquiesce, and making a
sudden change in the subject of their talk, de-
coyed his innocent guest aAvay from the thought
of democracy for a fcAV minutes, by holding up
to him the flag of hero-Avorship, in which wor-
ship Tom was, of course, a sedulous belicA'er.
Then, having involved him in most difficult
country, his persecutor opened fire upon him
from masked batteries of the most deadly kind,
the guns being all from tlie armory of his oavu
prophets.

“You long for the rule of the ablest man
everyAvhere, at all times ? To find your ablest
man, and then gi\m him power and obey him
— that you hold to be about the highest act of
Avisdom Avhich a nation can be capable of?”
“Yes; and you know you believe that too.
Hardy, just as firmly as I do.”

“ I hope so. But, then, hoAv about our uni-
versal democracy, and every man having a share
in the government of his country ?”

Tom felt that his flank was turned ; in fact,
the contrast of his tAVO beliefs had never struck
him vividly before, and he AA^as consequently
much confused. But Hardy AA'ent on tapping a
big coal gently AAuth the poker, and gaA'e him
time to recoAmr himself and collect his thoughts.

‘ ‘ I don’t mean, of course, that every man is
to have an actual share in the government,” he
said, at last.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“But every man is somehow to have a share ;
and if not an actual one, I can’t sec what the
proposition comes to.”

“I call it having a share in the government
when a man has share in saying who shall gov-
ern him.”

“ Well, you’ll own that’s a very different
thing. But let’s see ; will that find our wisest
governor for us — letting all the foolishest men
in the nation have a say as to who he is to
he?”

“ Come now. Hardy, I’ve heard you say that
you are for manhood suffrage.”

“That’s another question ; you let in anoth-
er idea there. At present we are considering
whether the rox/jojow/iisthebest test for finding
your best man. I’m afraid all history is against
you.”

“That’s a good joke. Now there I defy
you. Hardy.”

“Begin at the beginning, then, and let us
see.”

“I suppose you’ll say, then, that the Egyp-
tian and Babylonian empires were better than
the little Jewish republic.”

“Republic ! well, let that pass. But I never
heard that the Jews elected Moses, or any of
the judges.”

“Well, never mind the Jews; they’re an ex-
ceptional case: you can’t argue from them.”

“ I don’t admit that. I believe just the con-
trary. But go on.”

“Well, then, what do you say to the glorious
Greek republics, with Athens at the head of
thorn ?”

“I say that no nation ever treated their best
men so badly. T see I must put on a lecture in
Aristophanes for your special benefit. Vain,
irritable, shallow, suspicious oldDemus, with his
two oboli in his cheek, and doubting only be-
tween Cleon and the sausage-seller, which he
shall choose for his wisest man — not to govern,
but to serve his whims and caprices. You
must call another witness, I think.”

“But that’s a caricature.”

“ Take the picture, then, out of Thucydides,
Plato, Xenophon, how you will — you won’t
mend the matter much. You shouldn’t go so
fast, Brown ; you Avon’t mind my saying so, I
know. You don’t get clear in your own mind
before you pitch into every one who comes across
you, and so do your own side (which I admit is
mostly the right one) more harm than good.”
Tom couldn’t stand being put down so sum-
marily, and fought over the ground from one
country to another, from Rome to the United
States, with all the arguments he could muster,
but with little success. That unfortunate first
admission of his — he felt it throughout, like a
mill-stone round his neck, and could not help
admitting to himself, when he left, that there
was a good deal in Hardy’s Concluding remark :
“ You’ll find it rather a tough business to get
your ‘universal democracy,’ and ‘government
by the wisest,’ to pull together in one coach.”
Notwithstanding all such occasional reverses

and cold baths, however, Tom went on strength-
ening himself in his new opinions, and main-
taining them with all the zeal of a convert.
The shelves of his book-case and the Avails of his
rooms soon began to show signs of the change
which Avas taking place in his Avays of looking
at men and things. Hitherto a framed engraA'-
ing of George HI. had hung over his mantel-
piece ; but early in this, his third year, the
frame had disappeared for a fetv days, and Avhen
it reappeared the solemn face of John Milton
looked out from it, Avhile the honest monarch
had retired into a port-folio. A fac-simile of
Magna Charta soon displaced a large colored
print of “A Day with the Pycheley and soon
afterwards the death-Avarrant of Charles I., Avith
its grim and resolute roAvs of signatures and seals,
appeared on the Avail in a place of honor, in the
neighborhood of Milton.

Squire BroAvn Avas passing through Oxford,
and paid his son a visit soon after this last ar-
rangement had been completed. He dined in *
hall, at the high table, being still a member of
the college, and afterwards came Avith Hardy to
Tom’s rooms to have a quiet glass of Avine, and
spend the evening with his son and a fcAv of his
friends, Avho had been asked to meet “ the go\'-
ernor.”

Tom had a struggle Avith himself Avhether he
should not remove the death-Avarrant into his
bedroom for the evening, and had actually
taken it down Avith this view ; but in the end
he could not stomach such a backsliding, and so
restored it to its place. “ I neA^er concealed my
opinions from my father,” he thought, “ though
I don’t think he quite knoAvs Avhat they are.
But if he doesn’t, he ought, and the sooner the
better. I should be a sneak to try to hide them.

I know he won’t like it, but he is always just and
fair, and will make alloAA'ances. At any rate,
up it goes again.”

And so he rehung the death-Avarrant, but Avith
the devout secret hope that his father might not
see it.

The Avine-party went off admii’ably. The
men Avere nice, gentlemanly, intelligent felloAvs ;
and the squire, Avho had been carefully planted
by TomAvith his back to the death-Avarrant, en-
joyed himself very much. At last they all Avent,
except Hardy ; and now the nervous time ap-
proached. For a short time longer the three
sat at the Avine-table, Avhile the squire enlarged
upon the great improvement in young men, and
the habits of the University, especially in the
matter of drinking. Tom had only opened
three bottles of port. In his time the men
would have drunk certainly not less than a bot-
tle a man ; and other like remarks he made,
as he sipped his coffee, and then, pushing back
his chair, said, “Well, Tom, hadn’t your serA-
ant better clear aAvay, and then Ave can draAv
round the fire and have a talk.”

“ Wouldn’t you like to take a turn AA’hile he
is clearing? There’s the Martyrs’ Memorial
you liaA^en’t seen.”

“No, thank you. I knoAv the place Avell

21G

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

enough. I don’t come to walk about in the
dark. ,We shan’t be in your man’s way.”

And so Tom’s scout came in to clear away,
took out the extra leaves of his table, put on the
cloth, and laid tea. During these operations
Mr. Brown was standing with his back to the
fire, looking about him as he talked : when there
was more space to move in, he began to walk up
and down, and very soon took to remarking the
furniture and arrangements of the room. One
after another the pictures came under his notice
— most of them escaped without comment, the
squire simply pausing a moment, and then
taking up his walk again. Magna Charta
drew forth his hearty approval. It was a capi-
tal notion to hang such things on your walls, in-
stead of bad prints of steeple-chases, or trash of
that sort. “ Ah ! here’s something else of the
same kind. Why, Tom, what’s this ?” said the
squire, as he paused before the death-warrant.
There was a moment or two of dead silence,
while the squire’s e}’e ran down the names, from
Jo: Bradshaw to Miles Corbet; and then he
turned, and came and sat down opposite to his
son. Tom expected his father to be vexed, but
was not the least prepared for the tone of pain,
and sorrow, and anger, in which he first inquired,
and then remonstrated.

For some time past the squire and his son
liad not felt so comfortable together as of old.
Mr. Brow'n had been annoyed by much that Tom
had done in the case of Harry Winburn, though
he did not know all. There had sprung up a
barrier somehow or other between them, neither
of them knew how. They had often felt em-
barrassed at being left alone together during the
last year, and found that there were certain
topics which they could not talk upon, which
they avoided by mutual consent. Every now
and then the constraint and embarrassment fell
off for a short time, for at bottom they loved
and appreciated one another heartily ; but the
divergences in their thoughts and habits had
become very serious, and seemed likely to in-
crease rather than not. They felt keenly the
chasm between the two generations ; as they
looked at one another from the opposite banks,
each in his secret heart blamed the other, in
great measure, for that which was the fault of
neither. Mixed with the longings which each
felt for a better understanding was enough of
reserve and indignation to prevent them from
coming to it. The discovery of their differences
was too recent, and they were too much alike in
character and temper for either to make large
enough allowances for, or to be really tolerant
of, the other.

This was the first occasion on which they had
come to out-spoken and serious difference ; and
though the collision had been exceedingly pain-
ful to both, yet when they parted for the night
it -was with a feeling of relief that the ice had
been thoroughly broken. Before his hither left
the room, Tom had torn the fac-simile of the
death-warrant out of its frame and put it in the
fire, protesting, however, at the same time, that,

though “ he did this out of deference to his fa-
ther, and was deeply grieved at having given
him pain, he could not and would not give up
his honest convictions, or pretend that they were
changed, or even shaken.”

The squire walked back to his hotel deeply
moved. Who can wonder? He was a man
full of living and vehement convictions. One
of his early recollections had been the arrival in
England of the news of the beheading of Louis
XVI. and the doings of the reign of terror. He
had been bred in the times when it was held
impossible for a gentleman or a Christian to
hold such views as his son had been maintain-
ing, and, like many of the noblest Englishmen
of his time, had gone with and accepted the
creed of the day.

Tom remained behind, dejected and melan-
choly ; now accusing his father of injustice and
bigotry, now longing to go after him, and give
up every thing. What were all his opinions
and convictions compared with his father’s con-
fidence and love ? At breakfast the next morn-
ing, however, after each of them had had time
for thinking over what had passed, they met
with a cordiality which was as pleasant to eacli
as it was unlooked for ; and from this visit of
his father to him at Oxford Tom dated a new
and more satisfactory epoch in their intercourse.

The fact had begun to dawn on the squire
that the world had changed a good deal since
his time. He saw that young men were much
improved in some ways, and acknowledged
the fact heartily ; on the other hand, they had
taken up with a lot of new notions which he
could not understand, and thought mischievous
and bad. Perhaps Tom might get over them
as he got to be older and wiser, and in the
mean time he must take the evil with the good.
At any rate, he was too fair a man to try to
dragoon his son out of any thing which he real-
ly believed. Tom on his part gratefully accept-
ed the change in his father’s manner, and took
all means of showing his gratitude by consult-
ing and talking freely to him on such subjects
as they could agree upon, which were numer-
ous, keeping in the background the questions
which had provoked painful discussions between
them. By degrees these even could be ten-
derly approached ; and now that they Avere ap-
proached in a different spirit, the honest beliefs
of the father and son no longer looked so mon-
strous to one another, the hard and sharp out-
lines began to ivear off, and the views of each
of them to be modified. Thus, bit by bit, by a
slow but sure process, a better understanding
than ever ivas re-established between them.

This beginning of a better state of things in
his relations with his father consoled Tom for
many other matters that seemed to go wrong
with him, and ivas a constant bit of bright sky
to turn to when the rest of his horizon looked
dark and dreary, as it did often enough.

For it proved a very trying year to him, this
his third and last year at the university— 7a year
full of large dreams and small performances, of

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

217

unfulfilled hopes, and struggles to set himself
right, ending ever more surely in failure and
disappointment. The common pursuits of the
place had lost their freshness, and with it much
of their charm. He was beginning to feel him-
self in a cage, and to beat against the bars of it..

Often, in spite of all his natural hopefulness,
his heart seemed to sicken and turn cold, with-
out any apparent reason ; his old pursuits palled
on him, and he scarcely cared to turn to new
ones. What was it that made life so blank to
him at these times ? How was it that he could
not keep the spirit within him alive and warm ?

It was easier to ask such questions than to get
an answer. Was it not this place he was liv-
ing in, and the ways of it ? No, for the place
and its ways were the same as ever, and his
own way of life in it better than ever before.
Was it the want of sight or tidings of Mary ?
Sometimes he thoug.ht so, and then cast the
thought away as treason. His love for her
was ever sinking deeper into him, and raising
and purifying him. Light and strength and
life came from that source ; craven weariness
and coldness of heart, come from whence they
might, were not from that quarter. But pre-
cious as his love was to him, and deeply as it
atiected his whole life, he felt that there must
be something beyond it — that its full satisfac-
tion would not be enough for him. The bed
was too narrow for a man to stretch himself
on. What he was in search of must underlie
and embrace his human love, and support it.
Beyond and above all private and personal de-
sires and hopes and longings, he was conscious
of a restless craving and feeling about after
something which he could not grasp, and yet
which was not avoiding him, which seemed to
be mysteriously laying hold of him and sur-
rounding him.

The routine of chapels, and lectures, and read-
ing for degree, boating, cricketing. Union-debat-
ing— all well enough in their way — left this
vacuum unfilled. There was a great outer vis-
ible world, the problems and puzzles of which
were rising before him and haunting him more
and more; and a great inner and invisible
world opening round him in awful depth. He
seemed to be standing on the brink of each —
now, shivering and helpless, feeling like an atom
about to be whirled into the great flood and
carried he knew not where— now ready to
plunge in and take his part, full of hope and
belief that he was meant to buffet in tbe
strength of a man with the seen and the un-
seen, and to be subdued by neither.

In such a year as this a bit of steady, bright
blue sky was a boon beyond all price, and so he
felt it to be. And it was not only with his
father that Tom regained lost ground in this
year. He was in a state of mind in which he
could not bear to neglect or lose any particle
of human sympathy, and so he turned to old
friendships, and revived the correspondence
with several of his old school-fellows, and par-
ticularly with Arthur, to the great deliglit of

the latter, who had mourned bitterly over the
few half-yearly lines, all he had got from Tom
of late, in answer to his own letters, which liad
themselves, under the weight of neglect, gradu-
ally dwindled down to mere formal matters.
A specimen of the later correspondence may
fitly close the chapter ;

“St. Ambrose.

“Dear George, — I can hardly pardon you
for having gone to Cambridge, though you
have got a Trinity scholarship — which I sup-
pose is, on the whole, quite as good a thing as
any thing of the sort you could have got up
here. I had so looked forward to having you
here though, and now I feel that we shall prob-
ably scarcely ever meet. You will go your
way and I mine ; and one alters so quickly,
and gets into such strange new grooves, that
unless one sees a man about once a week at
least, you may be just like strangers when you
are thrown together again. If you had come
up here it would have been all right, and we
should have gone on all through life as we
were when I left school, and as I know we
should be again in no time if you had come
here. But now who can tell ?

“What makes me think so much of this is a
visit of a few days that East paid me just be-
fore his regiment went to India. I feel that if
he hadn’t done it, and we had not met till he
came back — years hence, perhaps — we should
never have been to one another what we shall
be now. The break would have been too
great. Now it’s all right. You would have so
liked to see the old fellow grown into a man,
but not a bit altered — just the quiet, old way,
pooh-poohing you, and pretending to care for
nothing, but ready to cut the nose off his face,
or go through fire and water for you at a pinch,
if you’ll only let him go his own way about it,
and have his grumble, and say that he does it
all from the worst possible motives.

“But we must try not to lose hold of one
another, Geordie. It would be a bitter day to
me if I thought any thing of the kind could
ever happen again. We must write more to
one another. I’ve been awfully lazy, I know,
about it for this last year and more ; but then
I always thought you would be coming up
here, and so that it didn’t matter much. But
now I will turn over a new leaf, and write to
you about ‘ my secret thoughts, my A\’orks and
ways ;’ and you must do it too. If we can
only tide over the next year or two we shall
get into plain sailing, ancl I suppose it will all
go right then. At least, I can’t believe that
one is likely to have many such up-and-down
years in one’s life as the last two. If one is,
goodness knows where I shall end. You know
the outline of what has happened to me from
my letters, and the talks we have had in my
flying visits to the old school ; but you haven’t
a notion of the troubles of mind I’ve been in,
and the changes I’ve gone through. I can
hardly believe it myself when I look back.
However, I’m quite sure I have got on; that’’

218

TOM BKOWN AT OXFOKD.

my great comfort. It is a strange, blind sort
of world, that’s a fact, with lots of blind alleys,
down which you go blundering in the fog after
some seedy gas-light, which you take for the
sun till you run against the wall at the end,
and find out that the light is a gas-light, and
that there’s no thoroughfare. But for all that,
one does get on. You get to know the sun’s
light better and better, and to keep out of the
blind alleys ; and I am surer and surer every
day that there’s always sunlight enough for
every honest fellow — though I didn’t think so a
few months back — and a good sound road un-
der his feet, if he will only step out on it.

“ Talking of blind alleys puts me in mind of
your last. Aren’t you going down a blind al-
ley, or something worse ? There’s no wall to
bring you up, that I can see, down the turn
you’ve taken ; and then, what’s the practical use
of it all ? What good would you do to your-
self, or any one else, if you could get to the end
of it ? I can’t for the life of me fancy, I con-
fess, Avhat you think will come of speculating
about necessity and free-will. I only know that
I can hold out my hand before me, and can
move it to the right or left, despite of all pow-
ers in heaven or earth. As I sit here writing
to you, I can let into my heart, and give the
reins to, all sorts of devils’ passions, or to the
Spirit of God. Well, that’s enough for me. I
know it of myself, and I believe you know it of
yourself, and every body knows it of themselves
or himself ; and why you can’t be satisfied with
that passes my comprehension. As if one hasn’t
got puzzles enough, and bothers enough, under
one’s nose, without going afield after a lot of
metaphysical qui’obles. No, I’m wrong — not
going afield — any thing one has to go afield
for is all right. What a fellow meets outside
himself he isn’t responsible for, and must do the
best he can with. But to go on forever looking
inside of one’s self, and groping about among
one’s own sensations, and ideas, and whimsies
of one kind and another — I can’t conceive a
poorer line of business than that. Don’t you
get into it, now, that’s a dear boy.

“Very likely you’ll tell me you can’t help it ;
that every one has his own difficulties, and must
fight them out, and that mine are one sort, and
yours another. Well, perhaps you may be right.
I hope I’m getting to know that my plummet
isn’t to measure all the world. But it does
seem a pity that men shouldn’t be thinking
about how to cure some of the wrongs which
poor dear old England is pretty near dying of,
instead of taking the edge off their brains, and
spending all their steam in speculating about
all kinds of things which wouldn’t make any
poor man in the world — or rich one either, for
that matter — a bit better off, if they were all
found out and settled to-morrow. But here I
am at the end of my paper. Don’t be angry at
my jobation ; but write me a long answer of
your own free will, and believe me ever affec-
tionately vours,

“T. B.”

CHAPTER XLIII.

ATTERNOON VISITORS.

Miss Mary Porter was sitting alone in the
front drawing-room of her father’s house, in Bel-
gravia, on the afternoon of a summer’s day in
this same year. Two years and more have
passed over her head since we first met her, and
she may be a thought more sedate and better
dressed, but there is no other change to be no-
ticed in her. The room was for the most part
much like other rooms in that quarter of the
world. There were few luxuries in the way of
furniture which fallen man can desire which
were not to be found there ; but, over and above
this, there was an elegance in the arrangement
of all the knickknacks and ornaments, and an
appropriateness and good taste in the placing of
every piece of furniture and vase of flowers,
which showed that a higher order of mind than
the upholsterer’s or housemaid’s was constantly
overlooking and w'orking there. Every thing
seemed to be in its exact place, in the best place
which could have been thought of for it, and to
be the best thing which could have been thought
of for the place. And yet this perfection did not
strike you particularly at first, or surprise you
in any way, but sank into you gradually, so that,
until you forced yourself to consider the matter,
you could not in the least say w'hy the room had
such a very pleasant effect on you.

The young lady to whom this charm was
chiefly owing was sitting by a buhl work-table,
on which lay her embroidery and a book. She
was reading a letter, which seemed deeply to
interest her ; for she did not hear the voice of
the butler, who had just opened the door and
disturbed her solitude, until he had repeated for
the second time, “Mr. Smith.” Then Mary
jumped up, and, hastily folding her letter, put
it into her pocket. She was rather provoked at
having allowed herself to be caught there alone
by afternoon visitors, and with the servants for
having let any one in ; nevertheless, she wel-
comed Mr. Smith with a cordiality of manner
which perhaps rather more than represented her
real feelings, and, with a “let mamma know,”
to the butler, set to work to entertain her visit-
or. She would have had no difficulty in doing
this under ordinary circumstances, as all that
Mr. Smith wanted was a good listener. He
was a somewhat heavy and garrulous old gen-
tleman, with many imaginary, and a few real
troubles, the constant contemplation of which
served to occupy the whole of his own time, and
as much of his friends’ as he could get them to
give him. But scarcely had he settled himself
comfortably in an easy-chair opposite to his vic-
tim, when the butler entered again, and an-
nounced “Mr. St. Cloud.”

Mary was no longer at her ease. Her man-
ner of receiving her new visitor was constrained ;
and yet it was clear that he was on easy terms
in the house. She asked the butler where his
mistress was, and heard tvith vexation that she
had gone out, but w'as expected home almost

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

219

immediately. Charging him to let her mother
know the moment she returned, Mary turned to
her unwelcome task, and sat herself down again
with such resignation as she was capable of at
the moment. Tlie conduct of her visitors was
by no means calculated to restore her compos-
ure, or make her comfortable between them. She
was sure that they knew one another ; but neither
of them would speak to the other. There the
two sat on, each resolutely bent on tiring the
other out ; the elder crooning on to her in an
undertone, and ignoring the younger, who, in
his turn, put on an air of serene unconsciousness
of the presence of his senior, and gazed about
the room, and watched Mary, making occasional
remarks to her as if no one else were present.
On and on they sat, her only comfort being the
hope that neither of them would have the con-
science to stay on after the departure of the
other.

Between' them Mary was driven to her wits’
end, and looked for her mother or for some new
visitor to come to her help, as Wellington look-
ed for the Prussians on the afternoon of June
18th. At last youth and insolence prevailed,
and Mr. Smith rose to go. Mary got up too,
and, after his departure, remained standing, in
hopes that her other visitor would take the hint
and follow the good example. But St. Cloud
had not the least intention of moving.

‘ ‘ Really your good-nature is quite astonish-
ing, Miss Porter,” he said, leaning forward with
his elbows on his knees, and following the
pattern of one of the flowers on the carpet
with his cane, which gave him the opportunity
of showing his delicately-gloved hand to ad-
vantage.

“ Indeed, why do you think so ?” she asked,
taking up her embroidery, and pretending to be-
gin working.

“Have I not good reason, after sitting this
half-hour and seeing you enduring old Smith —
the greatest here in London ? I don’t believe
there are three houses where the servants dare
let him in. It would be as much as their places
are worth. No porter could hope for a character
who let him in twice in the season.”

“Poor Mr. Smith!” said Mary, smiling.
“But you know we have no porter, and — ” she
suddenly checked herself, and added gravely,
“he is an old friend, and papa and mamma
like him.”

“But the wearisomeness of his grievances!
Those three sons in the Plungers, and their
eternal scrapes ! How you could manage to
keep a civil face ! It was a masterpiece of
polite patience.”

“ Indeed, I am very sorry for his troubles. I
wonder where mamma can be? We are going
to drive. Shall you be in the Park ? I tiiink
it must be time for me to dress.”

“I hope not. It is so seldom that I see you
except in crowded rooms. Can you wonder that
I should value such a chance as this ?”

“Were you at the new opera last night?”
asked Mary, carefully avoiding his eye, and

sticking to her work, but scarcely able to con-
ceal her nervousness and discomfort.

“Yes, I was there; but — ”

“ Oh, do tell me about it, then ; I hear it was
a great success.”

“ Another time. We can talk of the opera
anywhere. Let me speak now of something
else. You must have seen. Miss Porter — ”

“ How can you think I will talk of any thing
till you have told me about the opera ?” inter-
rupted Mary, rapidly and nervously. “ Was
Grisi very fine ? The chief part was composed
for her, was it not ? and dear old Lablache — ”

“ I will tell you all about it presently, if you
will let me, in five minutes’ time — I only ask
for five minutes — ”

“Five minutes! Oh, no, not five seconds.
I must hear about the new opera before I will
listen to a word of any thing else.”

“Indeed, Miss Porter, you must pardon me
for disobeying. But I may not have such a
chance as this again for months.”

With which prelude he drew his chair toward
hers, and Mary was just trying to make up her
mind to jump up and run right out of the room,
when the door opened, and the butler walked in
with a card on the waiter. Mary had never felt
so relieved in her life, and could have hugged
the solemn old domestic when he said, present-
ing the card to her,

“The gentleman asked if mistress or you were
in. Miss, and told me to bring it up and find
whether you would see him on particular busi-
ness. He’s waiting in the hall.”

“Oh yes, I know; of course. Yes, say I
will see him directly. I mean, ask him to come
up now.”

“ Shall I show him into the library. Miss?”

“ No, no ; in here ; do you understand ?”
“Yes, Miss,” replied the butler, with a dep-
recatory look at St. Cloud, as much as to say,
“ you see I can’t help it,” in answer to his im-
patient telegraphic signals. St. Cloud had been
very liberal to the Porters’ servants.

Mary’s confidence had all come back. Re-
lief was at hand. She could trust herself to
hold St. Cloud at bay now, as it could not be
for more than a few minutes. When she turn-
ed to him the nervousness had quite gone out
of her manner, and she spoke in her old tone
again, as she laid her embroidery aside.

“ How lucky that you should be here. Look ;
I think you must be acquainted,” she said, hold-
ing out the card which the butler had given her
to St. Cloud.

He took it mechanically and looked at it, and
then crushed it in his hand, and was going to
speak. She prevented him.

“I was right, I’m sure. You do know
him ?”

“I didn’t see the name,” he said, almost
fiercely.

“ The name on the card which I gave you
just now' — Mr. Grey. He is curate in one of
the poor Westminster districts. You must re-
member him, for he was of your college. He

220

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

was at Oxford with you. I made his acquaint-
ance at the Commemoration. He will be so
glad to meet an old friend.”

St. Cloud was too much provoked to answer ;
and the next moment the door opened, and the
butler announced Mr. Grey.

Grey came into the room timidly, carrying
his head a little down as usual, and glancing
uncomfortably about in the manner which used
to make Drysdale say that he always looked as
though he had just been robbing a hen-roost.
Mary went forward to meet him, holding out
her hand cordially.

“lam so glad to see you,” slie said. “How
kind of you to call when you are so busy !
Mamma will be here directly. I think you
must remember Mr. St. Cloud — Mr. Grey.”

St. Cloud’s patience was now quite gone.
He drew himself up, making the slightest possi-
ble inclination towards Grey, and then, with-
out taking any further notice of him, turned to
Mary with a look which he meant to be full of
pitying admiration for her, and contempt of her
visitor ; but, as she would not look at him, it
was thrown away. So he made bis bow and
stalked out of the room, angrily debating with
himself, as he went down the stairs, whether she
could have understood him. He was so fully
convinced of the sacrifice which a man in his
position Avas making in paying serious attentions
to a girl with little fortune and no connection,
that he soon consoled himself in the belief that
her embarrassment only arose from shyness, and
that the moment he could explain himself she
would be his obedient and grateful servant.
Meantime Mary sat down opposite to the curate,
and listened to him as he unfolded his errand
awlvAvardly enough. An execution was threat-
ened in the house of a poor struggling widow,
whom Mrs. Porter had employed to do needle-
Avork occasionally, and Avho Avas behind Avith her
rent through sickness. He Avas afraid that her
things Avould be taken and sold in the morning,
unless she could borroAV tAvo soA^ereigns. He
had so many claims on him that be could not
lend her the money himself, and so had to come
out to see Avhat he could do among those Avho
knew her.

By the time Grey had arrived at the end of
his story, Mary had made up her mind — not
Avithout a struggle — to sacrifice the greater part
of Avbat Avas left of her quarter’s alloAvance.
After all, it Avould only be Avearing cleaned
gloves instead of ncAv ones, and giA'ing up her
ncAv riding-hat till next quarter. So she jump-
ed up, and said gayly, “ Is that all, Mr. Grey ?
I have the money, and I AA-ill lend it her with
pleasure. I Avill fetch it directly.” She trip-
ped off to her room, and soon came back Avith
the money ; and just then the butler came in
Avith tea, and Mary asked Mr. Grey to take
some. He looked tired she said, and, if he
AAmuld wait a little time, he Avould see her moth-
er, Avho Avould be sure to do something more for
the poor woman.

Grey had risen to IgaA’e, and Avas standing.

hat in hand, ready to go. He was in the habit
of reckoning Avith himself strictly for every min-
ute of his day, and Avas never quite satisfied Avith
himself unless he Avas doing the most disagreea-
ble thing Avhich cii’cumstances for the time being
allowed him to do. But greater and stronger
men than Grey, from Adam downAvard, haA’e
yielded to the temptation before Avhich he noAV
succumbed. He looked out of the corners of his
eyes ; and there Avas something so fresh and bright
in the picture of the dainty little tea-service and
the young lady behind it, the tea Avhich she was
beginning to pour out smelt so refreshing, and
her hand and figure looked so pretty in the op-
eration, that, Avith a sigh of departing resolution,
he gaA^e in, put his hat on the floor, and sat doAvn
opposite to the tempter.

Grey took a cup of tea, and then another.
He thought he had never tasted any thing so
good. The delicious rich cream, and the tempt-
ing plate of bread and butter, were tbo much for
him. He fairly gave Avay, and resigned himself
to physical enjoyment, and sipped his tea, and
looked over his cup at Mary, sitting there bright
and kind, and ready to go on pouring out for
him to any extent. It seemed to him as if an
atmosphere of light and joy surrounded her,
Avithin the circle of Avhich he Avas sitting and ab-
sorbing. Tea Avas the only stimulant that Grey
ever took, and he had more need of it than usu-
al, for he had given aAvay the chop Avhich Avas
his ordinary dinner to a starving Avoman. He
Avas faint Avith fasting and the bad air of the
hoA-els in Avhich he had been spending his morn-
ing. The elegance of the room, the smell of the
floAvers, the charm of companionship with a
young AVoman of his OAvn rank, and the contrast
of the whole to his common Avay of life, carried
him aAvay, and hopes and thoughts began to
creep into his head to which he had long been a
stranger. Mary did her very best to make his
visit pleasant to him. She had a great respect
for the self-denying life which she knew he Avas
leading ; and the nervousness and shyness of his
manners Avere of a kind,Avhich, instead of infect-
ing her, gave her confidence, and made her feel
quite at her ease with him. She was so grate-
ful to him for having delivered her out of her re-
cent embarrassment, that sheAA^as more than us-
ually kind in her manner.

She saw how he Avas enjoying himself, and
thought Avhat good it must do him to forget his
usual occupations for a short time. So she talk-
ed positive gossip to him, asked his opinion on
riding-habits, and very soonAvas telling him the
plot of a new noA'el Avhich she had just been
reading, Avith an animation and playfulness Avbich
Avould have Avarmed the heart of an anchorite.
For a short quarter of an hour Grey resigned
himself ; but at the end of that time he became
suddenly and painfully conscious of what he Avas
doing, and stopped himself short in the middle
of an altogether Avorldly compliment Avhich he
detected himself in the act of paying to his too
fascinating young hostess. He felt that retreat
Avas his only chance, and so grasped his hat

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

221

again, and rose with a deep sigh, and a sudden
change of manner which alarmed Mary.

“1 hope you are not ill, Mr. Grey ?” she said,
anxiously.

“No, not the least, thank you. But — but
— in short, I must go to my work. I ought to
apologize, indeed, for having staid so long.”
“Oh, you have not been here more than
twenty minutes. Pray stay, and see mamma ;
she must be in directly.”

“Thank you ; you are very kind. I should
like it very much, but indeed I can not.”

Mary felt that it would be no kindness to
press it further, and so rose herself and held out
her hand. Grey took it, and it is not quite cer-
tain to this day whether he did not press it, in
that farewell shake, more than was absolutely
necessary. If he did, we may be quite sure that
he administered exemplary punishment to him-
self aftfenvards for so doing. He would gladly
have left now, but his over-sensitive conscience
forbade it. He had forgotten his office, he
thought, hiiherto ; but there was time yet not to
be altogether false to it. So he looked grave
and shy again, and said :

“You will not be offended with me. Miss
Porter, if I speak to you as a clergyman ?”

Mary was a little disconcerted, but answered
almost immediately :

“Oh, no. Pray say any thing which you
think you ought to say.”

“ I am afraid there must be a great tempta-
tion in living always in beautiful rooms like this,
with no one but prosperous peoiffe. Do you not
think so

“ But one can not help it. Surely, Mr. Grey,
you do not think it can be wrong ?”

“No, not wrong. But it must be very try-
ing. It must be very necessary to do something
to lessen the temptation of such a life.”

“ I do not understand you. What could one
do ?”

“Might you not take up some work which
would not be pleasant, such as visiting the
poor ?”

“ I should be very glad ; but we do not know
any poor people in London.”

“There are very miserable districts near
here.”

“ Yes, and papa and mamma are very kind,
I__know', in helping whenever they can hear of a
proper case. But it is so different from the
country. There it is so easy and pleasant to go
into the cottages where every one knows you,
and most of the people work for papa, and one
is sure of being welcomed, and that nobody will
be rude. But here I should be afraid. It would
seem so impertinent to go to people’s houses of
whom one knows nothing. I should never know
what' to say.”

“ It is not easy or pleasant duty which is the
best for us. Great cities could never be evan-
gelized, Miss Porter, if all ladies thought as you
do.”

“I think, Mr. Grey,” said Mary rather net-
tled, “ that every one has not the gift of lectur-

' ing the poor and setting them right; and if
they have not, they had better not try to do it.
And as for all the rest, there is plenty of the
same kind of work to bo done, I believe, among
the peo])le of one’s own class.”

“You are joking. Miss Porter.”

“ No, I am not joking at all. I believe that
rich people are quite as unhappy as poor.
Their troubles are not the same, of course, and
are generally of their own making. But troub-
les of the mind are worse, surely, than troubles
of the body ?”

“Certainly'; and it is the highest work of
the ministry to deal with spiritual trials. But'
you will pardon me for saying that I can not
think this the proper work for — for — ”

“For me, you would say. We must be
speaking of quite different things, I am sure.
I only mean that I can -listen to the troubles
and grievances of any one who likes to talk of
them to me, and try to comfort them a little,
and to make things look brighter, and to keep
cheerful. It is not easy always even to do
this.”

“It is not, indeed. But would it not be
easier if you could do as I suggest ? Going out
of one’s own class, and trying to care for and
help the poor, braces the mind more than any
thing else.”

“ You ought to know my Cousin Katie,” said
Mary, glad to make a diversion; “that is just
what she would say. Indeed, I think you must
have seen her at Oxford ; did you not?”

“I believe I had the honor of meeting her
at the rooms of a friend. I think he said she
was also a cousin of his.”

“Mr. Brown, you mean? Yes; did you
know him ?”

“Oh yes. You will think it strange, as we
are so very unlike ; but I knew him better than
I knew almost any one.”

“Poor Katie is very anxious about him. I
hope you thought well of him. You do not
think he is likely to go A'-ery wrong?”

“No, indeed. I could wish he Avere sounder
on Church questions, but that may come. Do
you know that he is in London ?”

“ I had heard so.”

“He has’been sevei'al times to my schools.
He used to help me at Oxford, and has a capital
Avay with the boys.”

At this moment the clock on the mantel-
piece struck a quarter. The sound touched
some chord in Grey which made him grasp his
hat again, and prepare for another attempt to
get aAvay.

“ I hope you Avill pardon — ” He pulled him-
self up short, in the fear lest he were going
again to be false (as he deemed it) to his call-
ing, and stood the picture of nervous discom-
fort.

Mary came to his relief. “ I am sorry you
must go, Mr. Grey,” she said; “I should so
like to have talked to you more about Oxford.
You will call again soon, I hope ?”

At Avhich last speech Grey cast an imploring

222

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

glance at her, muttering something which she
could not catch, and fled from the room.

Mary stood looking dreamily out of the win-
dow for a few minutes, till the entrance of her
mother roused her, and she turned to pour out
a cup of tea for her.

“ It is cold, mamma dear ; do let me make
some fresh.”

“No, thank you, dear; this wdll do very
well,” said Mrs. Rorter ; and she took off her
bonnet and sipped the cold tea. Mary watched
her silently for a minute, and then, taking the
letter she had been reading out of her pocket,

■ said :

“I have a letter from Katie, mamma.”

Mrs. Porter took the letter and read it ; and,
as Mary still watched, she saw a puzzled look
coming over her mother*s face. Mrs. Porter
finished the letter, and then looked stealthily
at Mary, who on her side was busily engaged
in putting up the tea-things.

“It is very embarrassing,” said Mrs. Porter.

“What, mamma?”

“ Oh, of course, my dear, I mean Katie’s tell-
ing us of her cousin’s being in London, and
sending us his address — ” and then she paused.

“Why, mamma?”

“ Your papa Avill have to make up his mind
Avhether he will ask him to the house. Katie
would surely never have told him that she has
Avritten.”

“Mr. and Mrs. BroAvn Avere so very kind.
It Avould seem so strange, so ungrateful, not
even to ask him.”

“ I am afraid he is not the sort of young
man — in short, I must speak to your papa.”

Mrs. Porter looked hard at her daughter, Avho
Avas still busied with the tea-things. She had
risen, bonnet in hand, to leave the room ; but
noAv changed her mind, and, crossing to her
daughter, put her arm round her neck, lyiary
looked up steadily into her eyes, then blushed
slightly, and said quietly:

“No, mamma ; indeed, it is not as you think.”

Her mother stooped and kissed her, and left
the room, telling her to get dressed, as the car-
riage Avould be round in a few minutes.

Her trials for the day Avere not oA^er. She
could see by their manner at dinner that her
father and mother had been talking about her.
Her father took her to a ball in the evening,
Avhere they met St. Cloud, Avho fastened him-
self to them. She Avas dancing a quadrille, and
her father stood near her, talking confidentially
to St. Cloud. In the intervals of the dance
scraps of their conA^ersation reached her.

“ You kneAV him, then, at Oxford?”

“Yes, very slightly.”

“ I should like to ask you now, as a friend — ”
Here Mary’s partner reminded her that she
ought to be dancing. When she had returned
to her place again she heard —

“You think, then, that it was a bad busi-
ness ?”

“ It was notorious in the college. We never
had any doubt on the subject.”

“My niece has told Mrs. Porter that there
really Avas nothing wrong in it.”

“Indeed? I am happy to hear it.”

“I should like to think Avell of him, as he is
a connection of my wife. In other respects
now — ” Here again she was carried away by
the dance, and, Avhen she returned, caught the
end of a sentence of St. Cloud’s, “You will
consider what I haA'e said in confidence?”

“ Certainly,” ansAvered Mr. Porter ; “ and I
am exceedingly obliged to you and then the
dance was OA'er, and Mary returned to her fa-
ther’s side. She had never enjoyed a ball less
than this, and persuaded her father to leave
early, Avhich he Avas delighted to do.

When she reached her own room Mary took
off her Avreath and ornaments, and then sat
down and fell into a broAvn study, Avhich lasted
for some time. At last she roused herself Avith
a sigh, and thought she had never had so tiring
a day, though she could hardly tell why, and
felt half inclined to haA’e a good cry, if she could
only have made up her mind Avhat about.
HoAvever, being a sensible young woman, she
resisted the temptation, and, hardly taking the
trouble to roll up her hair, Avent to bed and
slept soundly.

Mr. Porter found his Avife sitting up for him ;
they were evidently both full of the same sub-
ject.

“Well, dear?” she said, as he entered the
room.

Mr. Porter put doAvn his candle, and shook
his head.

“You don’t think Katie can be right, then ?
She must have capital opportunities of judging,
you know, dear.”

“ But she is no judge. What can a girl like
Katie know about such things ?”

' “ Well, dear, do you know I really can not
think there Avas any thing very Avrong, though
I did think so at first, I OAvn.”

“ But I find that his character was bad — de-
cidedly bad — always. Young St. Cloud didn’t
like to say much to me ; which Avas natural, of
coui’se. Young men never like to betray one
another ; but I could see Avhat he thought. He
is a right-minded young man, and very agree-
able.”

“ I do not take to him Amry much.”

“ His connections and prospects, too, are cap-
ital. I sometimes think he has a fancy for
Mary. Haven’t you remarked it ?”

“Yes, dear. But as to the other matter?
Shall you ask him here ?”

“Well, dear, I do not think there is any
need. He is only in town, I suppose, for a
short time, and it is not at all likely that Ave
should knoAV Avhere he is, you see.”

“ But if he should call?”

“Of course then Ave must be civil. We can
consider then Avhat is to be done.”

TOM BliOWN AT OXFORD.

223

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER-BAG.

“ Dear Katie, — At home, you see, without
having answered your last kind letter of coun-
sel and sympathy. But I couldn’t write in
town, I was in such a queer state all the time.
I enjoyed nothing, not even the match at Lord’s,
or the race ; only walking at night in the square,
and watching her window, and seeing her at a
distance in Rotten Row.

“ I followed your advice at last, though it
went against the grain uncommonly. It did
seem so unlike what I had a right to expect
from them — after all the kindness my father
and mother had shown them when they came
into our neighborhood, and after I had been so
intimate there, running in and oilt just like a
son of their own — that they shouldn’t take the
slightest notice of me all the time I was in Lon-
don. I shouldn’t have wondered if you hadn’t
explained ; but after that, and after you had
told them my direction, and when they knew
that I was within five minutes’ walk of their
house constantly (for they knew all about Grey’s
schools, and that I was there three or four times
a week), I do think it was too bad. However,
as I was going to tell you, I went at last, for I
couldn’t leave town without trying to see her ;
and I believe I have finished it all off. I don’t
know. I’m very low about it, at any rate, and
want to tell you all that passed, and to hear
what you think. I have no one to consult but
you, Katie. What should I do without you?
But you were born to help and comfort all the
world. I shan’t rest till I know what you think
about this last crisis in my history.

“I put off going till my last day in town,
and then called twice. The first time, ‘not at
home.’ But I was determined now to see some-
body and make out something; so I left my
card, and a message that, as I was leaving town
next day, I would call again. When I called
again at about six o’clock, I was shown into the
library, and presently your uncle came in. I
felt very uncomfortable, and I think he did too ;
but he shook hands cordially enough, asked why
I had not called before, and said he was sorry
to hear I was going out of town so soon. Do
you believe he meant it? I didn’t. But it
put me out, because it made it look as if it had
been my fault that I hadn’t been there before.
I said I didn’t know that he would have liked
me to call, but I felt that he had got the best
of the start.

“Then he asked after all at home, and talk-
ed of his boys, and how they were getting on at
school. By this time I had got my head
again ; so I went back to my calling, and said
that I had felt I could never come to their
house as a common acquaintance, and, as I did
not know whether they would ever let me come
in any other capacity, I had kept away till now.

“Your uncle didn’t like it, I know; for he
got up and walked about, and then said he
didn’t understand me. Well, I was quite reck-

less by this time. It was my last chance, I
felt; so I looked hard into my hat, and said
that I had been over head and ears in love
with Mary for two years. Of course there was
no getting out of the business after that. I kept
on staring into my hat ; so I don’t know how
he took it ; but the first thing he said was that
he had had some suspicions of this, and now
my confession gave him a right to ask me sev-
eral questions. In the first place : Had I ever
spoken to her ? No ; never directly. What
did I mean by directly ? I meant that I had
never either spoken or written to her on the sub-
ject— in fact, I hadn’t seen her except at a dis-
tance for the last two years, but I could not say
that she might not have found it out from my
manner. Had I ever told any one else? No.
And this was quite true, Katie, for both you
and Hardy found it out.

“ He took a good many turns before speak-
ing again. Then he said I had acted as a gen-
tleman hitherto, and he should be very plain
with me. Of course I must see that, looking
at my prospects and his daughter’s, it could not
be an engagement which he could look on with
much favor from a worldly point of view. Nev-
ertheless, he had the highest respect and re-
gard for my family, so that, if in some years’
time I was in a position to marry, he should
not object on his §core ; but there were other
matters which were in his eyes of more impor-
tance. He had heard (who could have told
him ?) that I had taken up very violent opin-
ions— opinions which, to say nothing more of
them, would very much damage my prospects
of success in life ; and that I was in the habit
of associating with the advocates of such opin-
ions— persons who, he must say, were not fit
companions for a gentleman — and of writing
violent articles in low revolutionary new^spapers,
such as the ‘ Wessex Freeman.’ Yes, I con-
fessed I had w'l’itten. Would I give up these
things ? I had a great mind to say flat. No,
and I believe I ought to have ; but as his tone
was kind, I couldn’t help trying to meet him.
So I said I would give up writing or speaking
publicly about such matters, but I couldn’t pre-
tend not to believe what I did believe. Fer-
haps, as my opinions had altered so much al-
ready, very likely they might again.

“He seemed to be rather amused at that,
and said he sincerely hoped they might. But
now came the most serious point : he had
heard very bad stories of me at Oxford, but he
would not press me with them. There were
too few young men whose lives would bear look-
ing into for him to insist much on such matters,
and he was ready to let by-gones be by-gones.
But I must remember that he had himself seen
me in one very awkward position. I broke in,
and said I had hoped that had been explained
to him. I could not defend my Oxford life ; I
could not defend myself as to this particul.ar
case at one time; but there had been nothing in
it that I was ashamed of since before the time I
knew his daughter.

224

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ On my honor, had I absolutely and entire-
ly broken off all relations with her ? He had
been told that I still kept up a correspondence
with her.

“ Yes, I still wrote to her, and saw her occa-
sionally ; but it was only to give her news of a
young man from her village, who was now
serving in India. He had no other way of
communicating with her.

“It was a most curious arrangement ; did I
mean that this young man was going to be mar-
ried to her ?

“ I hoped so.

“Why should he not write to her at once, if
they were engaged to be married ?

“They Avere not exactly engaged; it was
rather hard to explain. Here your uncle seem-
ed to lose patience, for he interrupted me, and
said, ‘Really it must be clear to me, as a rea-
sonable man, that, if this connection were not
absolutely broken olF, there must be an end of
every thing, so far as his daughter were concern-
ed. Would I give my word of honor to break it
off at once, and completely ?’ I tried to explain
again; but he would har’e nothing but ‘yes’ or
‘no.’ Dear Katie, what could I do ? I have
written to Patty that, till I die, she may always
reckon on me as on a brother ; and I have prom-
ised Harry never to lose sight of her, and to let
her know every thing tha4 happens to him.
Your uncle would not hear me ; so I said, No.
And he said, ‘Then our interview had better
end,’ and rang the bell. Somebody, I’m sure,
has been slandering me to him ; who can it be ?

“I didn’t say another word, or offer to shake
hands, but got up and walked out of the room,
as it Avas no good Availing for the seiwant to come.
When I got into the halt the front door Avas open,
and I heard her voice. I stopped dead short.
She was saying sometliing to some people Avho
had been riding Avith her. The next moment
the door shut, and she tripped in in her riding-
habit, and gray gloves and hat, Avith the dearest
little gray plume in it. She Avent humming
along, and up six or eight steps, Avithout seeing
me. Then I moved a step, and she stopped and
looked, and gaA’e a start. I don’t know Avliether
my face Avas awfully miserable ; but Avhen our
eyes met, hers seemed to fdl Avith pity, and un-
easiness, and inquiry, and the bright look to melt
aAvay altogether ; and then she blushed and ran
downstairs again, and held outlier hand, saying,
‘ I am so glad to see you, after all this long time.’
I pressed it, but I don’t think I said any thing.
I forget ; the butler came into the hall, and
stood by the door. She paused another mo-
ment, looked confused, and then, as the library
door opened, Avent aivay up stairs with a kind
‘good-bye.’ She dropped a little bunch of vio-
lets, Avhich she had AA’orn in the breast of her
habit, as she went away. I Avent and picked
them up, although your uncle had noAV come out
of the library, and then made the best of my Avay
into the street.

“There, Katie, I hai'C told you every thing
exactly as it happened. Do Avrite to me, dear.

and tell me, noAV, what you think. Is it all
over? What can I do? Can you do any thing
for me ? I feel it is better in one respect. Her
father can never say noAV that I didn’t tell him
all about it. But what is to happen ? I am so
restless. I can settle to nothing, and do noth-
ing, but fish. I moon aAvay all my time by the
Avater-side, dreaming. But I don’t mean to let
it beat me much longer. Here’s the fourth day
since I saAV her. I came away the next morn-
ing. I shall give myself a Aveek; and, dear, do
Avrite me a long letter at once, and interpret it
all to me. A woman knoAvs so Avondeifully
Avhat things mean. But don’t make it out bet-
ter than you really think. Nobody can stop my
going on loving her, that’s a comfort ; and Avhile
I can do that, and don’t know that she loves an}^-
body else, I ought to be happier than any other
man in the world. Yes, I ought to be, bat I
ain’t. I Avill be, though ; see if I Avon’t. Heigh-
ho ! Do Avrite directly, my dear counsellor, to
your affectionate cousin, T. B.

“ P.S. — I had almost forgotten my usual bud-
get. I inclose my last from India. You Avill see
by it that Harry is getting on famously. I am
more glad than I can tell you that my friend East
has taken him as his seiwant. He couldn’t be
under a better master. Poor Harry ! I some-
times think his case is more hopeless than my
own. How is it to come right? or mine?”

“ Englebourn.

“Dear Cousix, — You Avill believe hoAV I de-
voured your letter ; though, Avhen I had read
the first few lines and saAv Avhat was coming, it
made me stop and tremble. At first I could
have cried over it for vexation ; but, noAv I haA-e
thought about jt a little, I really do not see any
reason to be discouraged. At any rate. Uncle
Robert now knoAA's all about it, and Avill get
used to the idea, and Mary seems to haA'e re-
ceived you just as you ought to have Avished
that she should. I am thankful that you have
left off pressing me to Avrite to her about you,
for I am sure that Avould not be honorable ;
and, to rew’ard you, I inclose a letter of hers,
Avhich came yesterday. Yoir Avill see that she
speaks Avith such pleasure of having just caught
a glimpse of you that you need not regret the
shortness of the interview. You could not ex-
pect her to say more, because, after all, she can
only guess ; and I can not do more than ansAver
as if I Avere quite innocent too. I am sure you
Avill be very thankful lo me some day for not
haAung been your mouthpiece, as I AA^as so very
near being. You need not return the letter. I
suppose I am getting more hopeful as I groAv
older — indeed, I am sure I am ; for, three or four
years ago, I should liaA’^e been in despair about
you, and noAV I am nearly sure that all Avill
come right.

“But, indeed. Cousin Tom, you can not, or
ought not, to Avonder at Uncle Robert’s object-
ing to your opinions. And then I am so sur-
prised to find you saying that you think you
may very likely change them. Because, if

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

225

that is the case, it would be so much better if
you would not write and talk about tliem. Un-
less you are quite convinced of such things as
you write in that dreadful paper, you really
ought not to go on writing them so very much
as if you believed them.

“ And now I am speaking to you about this,
which I have often had on my mind to speak to
you about, I must ask you not to send me that
‘ Wessex Freeman ’ any more. I am always
delighted to hear what you think ; and there is
a great deal in the articles you mark for me
which seems very fine ; and I dare say you quite
believe it all when you write it. Only I am
quite afraid lest papa or any one of the servants
should open the papers, or get hold of them af-
ter I have opened them ; for I am sure there
are a great many wicked things in the other
parts of the paper. So, please do not send it
me, but write and tell me yourself any thing
that you wish me to know of what you are
thinking about and doing. As I did not like to
burn the papers, and was afraid to keep them here,
I have generally sent them on to your friend Mr.
Hardy. He does not know who sends them ;
and now you might send them yourself straight
to him, as I do not know his address in the
country. As you are going up again to keep a
term, I wish you would talk them over with
him, and see w'hat he thinks about them. You
will think tl|is very odd of me, but you know
you have always- said how much you rely on
his judgment, and that you have learned so much
from him. So I am sure you would wish to
consult him ; and if he thinks you ought to go
on writing, it will be a great help to you to
know it.

“I am so very glad to be able to tell you
how well Martha is going on. I have always
read to her the extracts from the letters from
India which you have sent me, and she is very
much obliged to you for sending them. 1
think there is no doubt that she is, and al-
ways has been, attached to poor widow Win-
burn’s son, and, now that he is behaving so well,
I can see that it gives her great pleasure to hear
about him. Only I hope he will be able to
come back before very long, because she is very
much admired, and is likely to have so many
chances of settling in life, that it is a great
chance whether attachment to him will be
strong enough to keep her single if he should
be absent for many years.

“Do you know I have a sort of superstition
that your fate hangs upon theirs in some curi-
ous manner — the two stories have been so in-
terwoven— and that they will both be settled
happily much sooner than we dare to hope even
just now.

“Don’t think, my dear cousin, that this letter
is cold, or that I do not take the very deepest
interest in all that concerns you. You and
Mary are always in my thoughts, and there is
nothing in the world I would not do for you
both -w'hich I thought would help you. I am
sure it would do you harm if I were only a go-be-
15

tween. Papa is much as usual. He gets out
a good deal in his chair in the sun this fine
weather. He desires me to say how glad he
should be if you will come over soon and pay
us a visit. I hope you will come very soon.

“Ever believe me, dear Tom, your affection-
ate cousin, Katie.”

“November.

“ Dear Tom, — I hear that what you in Eng-
land call a mail is to leave camp this evening ;
so, that you may liave no excuse for not writing
to me constantly, I am sitting down to spin you
such a yarn as I can under the disadvantageous
circumstances in which this will leave me.

“This time last year, or somewhere there-
abouts, I was enjoying academic life with you at
Oxford ; and now here I am, encamped at some
unpronounceable place beyond Umbahi. You
won’t be much the wiser for that. . What do
you know about Umbala? I didn’t myself
know that there was such a place till a month
ago, when we were ordered to march up here.
But one lives and learns. Marching over India
has its disagreeables, of which dysentery and
dust are about the worst. A lot of our fellows
are down with the former ; among others my
captain ; so I’m in command of the company.
If it were not for the glorious privilege of grum-
bling, I think that we should all own that we
liked the life. Moving about, though one does
get frozen and broiled regularly once in twenty-
fouT hours, suits me ; besides, they talk of mat-
ters coming to a crisis, and no end of fighting to
be done directly. You’ll know more about
what’s going on from the papers than we do, but
here they say the ball may begin any day ; so
we are making forced marches to be up in time.
I wonder how I shall like it. Perhaps, in my
next, I may tell you how a bullet sounds when
it comes at you. If there is any fighting, I ex-
pect our regiment will make their mark. We
are in tip-top order ; the colonel is a grand fel-
low, and the regiment feels his hand,, down to
the youngest drummer-boy. What a deal of
good I will do when I’m a colonel I

“I duly delivered the inclosure in your last
to your convict, who is rapidly ascending the
ladder of promotion. I am disgusted at this
myself, for I have had to give him up, and there
never was such a jewel of a servant ; but, of
course, it’s a great thing for him. He is covering
sergeant of my company, and the smartest cov-
erer we have, too. I have got a regular broth
of a boy, an Irishman, in his place, who leads
me a dog of a life. I took him chiefly because
he very nearly beat me in a foofr-race. Our
senior major is a Pat himself, and, it seems,
knew something of Larry’s powers. So, one day
at mess, he offered to back him against any one
in the regiment for two hundred yards. My
captain took him and named me, and it came
off next day ; and a precious narrow thing it
was, but I managed to win by a neck for the
honor of the old school. He is a lazy scatter-
brained creature, utterly indifferent to fact, and

226

TOM BKOWN AT OXTOKD.

I am obliged to keep the brandy flask under lock
and key ; but the humor and absolute good-
temper of the animal impose upon me, and I
really think he is attached to me. So I keep
him on, grumbling horribly at the change from
tliat orderly, punctual, clean, accurate convict.
Depend upon it, that fellow will do. He makes
his way everywhere, with oflScers and men. He
is a gentleman at heart, and, by-the-way, you
would be surprised at the improvement in his
manners and speech. There is hardly a taste
of Berkshire left in his deealect. He has read
all the books I could lend him or borrow for
him, and is fast picking up Hindostanee. So
you see, after all, I am com*e round to your opin-
ion that we did a good afternoon’s work on that
precious stormy common when we carried off
the convict from the authorities of his native
land, and I was first under fire. As you are a
performer in that line, couldn’t you carry off
his sweetheart, and send her out here ? After
the sea-voyage there isn’t much above one thou-
sand miles to come by dauk ; and tell her, with
my compliments, he is well worth coming twice
the distance for. Boor fellow, it is a bad look-
out for him, Bm afraid, as he may not get home
this ten years ; and, though he isn’t a kind to
be easily killed, there are serious odds against
him, even if he keeps all right. I almost wish
you had never told me his story.

“We are going into cantonments as soon as
this expedition is over, in a splendid pig district,
and I look forward to som.e real sport. All the
men who have had any tell me it beats the best
fox-hunt all to fits for excitement. I have got
my eye on a famous native horse, who is to be
had cheap. The brute is in the habit of kneel-
ing on his masters, and tearing them with his
teeth when he gets them off, but nothing can
touch him while you keep on his back. ‘How-
sumdever,’ as your countrymen say, I shall
have a shy at him, if I can get him at my
price.

“I’ve nothing more to say. There’s nobody
yog know here, except the convict sergeant, and
it’s awfully hard to fill a letter home unless
you’ve somebody to talk about. Yes, by-the-
way, there is one little fellow, an ensign, just
joined, who says he remembers us at school.
He can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen,
and w'as an urchin in the lower school, I sup-
pose, when we were leaving. I don’t remember
his face, but it’s a very good one, and he is a
bright gentlemanly youngster as you would wish
to see. His name is Jones. Do you remem-
ber him? He will be a godsend to me. I
have him to chum with me on this march.

“ Keep up your letters, as you love me. You
at home little know what it is to enjoy a letter.
Never mind what you put in it ; any thing will
do from home, and I’ve nobody else much to
write to me. '

“There goes the ‘ assembly.’ Why, I can’t
think, seeing we have done our day’s march.
However, I must turn out and see what’s up.

H! :)C

“December.

“ I have just fallen on this letter, which I had
quite forgotten, or, rather, had fancied I had
sent off to you three weeks and more ago. My
baggage has just come to hand, and the scrawl
turned up in my paper-case. Well, I have
plenty to tell you now, at any rate, if I have
time to tell it. That ‘ assembly ’ which stopped
me short, sounded in consequence of the arrival
of one of the commander- in-chief’s aides in our
camp with the news that the enemy w’as over
the Sutlej. We were to march at once, with
two six-pounders and a squadron of cavalry, on
a fort occupied by an out-lying lot of them which
commanded a ford, and was to be taken and
destroyed, and the rascals who held it dispersed ;
after which we were to join the main army.
Our colonel had the command; so we were on
the route within an hour, leaving a company
and the baggage to follow as it could ; and from
that time to this, forced marching and hard
fighting have been the order of the day.

“We drew first blood next morning. The
enemy w'ere in some force outside the fort, and
showed fight in very rough ground covered with
bushes, out of which we had to drive them —
which we did after a sharp struggle, and the
main body drew off altogether. Then the fort
had to be taken. Our two guns worked away at it
till dark. In the night two of the gunners, who
volunteered for the service, crept close up to the
place, and reported that there \vas nothing to
hinder our running right into it. Accordingly,
the colonel resolved to rush it at daybreak, and
my company was told off to lead. The captain
being absent, I had to command. I was with
tile dear old chief the last thing at night, get-
ting his instructions : ten minutes with him be-
fore going into action would make a hare
fight.

“There was cover to within one hundred
and fifty yards of the place ; and there I, and
poor little Jones and the men, spent the night
in a dry ditch. An hour before daybreak we
were on the alert, and served out rations, and
then they began playing tricks on one another
as if we were out for a junketing. I sat with
my watch in my hand, feeling queer, and won-
dering whether I was a greater coward than the
rest. Then came a streak of light. I put up
my watch, formed the men ; up went a rocket,
my signal, and out into the open we went at
the double. We hadn’t got over a third of
the ground when bang went the fort guns, and
the grape-shot were whistling about our ears ;
so I shouted ‘Forward!’ and away we went as
hard as we could go. I was obliged to go ahead,
you see, because every man of them knew I had
beaten Larry, their best runner, when he had
no gun to carry ; but I didn’t half like it, and
should have blessed any hole or bramble which
Would have sent me over and given them time
to catch me. But the ground was provokingly
level ; and so I was at the first mound and over
it several lengths in front of the men, and
among a lot of black fellows serving the guns.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

They came at me like wild-cats, and how I got
off is a mystery. I parried a cut from one fel-
low, and dodged a second ; a third rushed at
my left side. I just caught the flash of his
tulwar, and thought it was all up, when he
jumped into the air, shot through the heart by
Sergeant Winburn ; and the next moment
Master Larry rushed by me and plunged his
bayonet into my friend in front. It turned me
as sick as a dog. I can’t Aincy any thing more
disagreeable than seeing the operation for the
first time, except being struck one’s self. The
supporting companies were in in another min-
ute, with the dear old chief himself, who came
up and shook hands with me, and said I had
done credit to the regiment. Then I began to
look about, and missed poor little Jones. We
found him about twenty yards from the phlfce,
with two grape-shot through him, stone dead,
and smiling like a child asleep. We buried
him in the fort. I cut off some of his hair, and
sent it home to his mother. Her last letter
was in his breast pocket, and a lock of bright
brown hair of some one’s. I sent them back,
too, and his sword.

“ Since then we have been with the army,
and had three or four general actions ; about
which I can tell you nothing, except that we
have lost about a third of the regiment, and
haveahvays been told we have won. Steps go
fast enough ; my captain died of wounds and
dysentery a week ago ; so I have the company
in earnest. How long I shall hold it is another
question ; for, though there’s a slack, we haven’t
done with sharp work yet, I can see.

“ How often we’ve talked, years ago, of what
it must feel like going into battle! Well, the
chief thing I felt when the grape came down
pretty thick for the first time, as we were ad-
vancing, was a sort of gripes in the stomach
which made me want to go forward stooping.
But I didn’t give in to it ; the chief was riding
close behind us, joking the youngsters who
were ducking their heads, and so cheery and
cool that he made old soldiers of us at once.
What with smoke, and dust, and excitement,
you know scarcely any thing of what is going
on. The finest sight I have seen is the artil-
lery going into action. Nothing stops those
fellows. Places you would crane at out hunt-
ing they go right over, guns, carriages, men,
'and all, leaving any cavalry we’ve got out here
well behind. Do you know what a nullah is ?
Well, it’s a great gap, like a huge dry canal, fif-
teen or twenty feet deep. We were halted be-
hind one in the last great fight, waiting the or-
der to advance, when a battery came up at full
gallop. We all made sure they must be pulled
up by the nullah. They never pulled bridle.

‘ Leading gun, right turn !’ sang out the subal-
tern ; and down they went sideways into the
nullah. Then, ‘ Left turn ;’ up the other bank,
one gun after another, the horses scrambling
like cats up and down places that my men had
to use their hands to scramble up, and away on
the other side to withA two hundred yards of

the enemy ; and then, round like lightning, and
look out in front.

“Altogether it’s sickening work, though
there’s a grand sort of feeling of carrying your
life in. your hand. They say the Sepoy regi-
ments have behaved shamefully. There is no
sign of any thing like funk among our fellows
that I have seen. Sergeant Winburn has dis-
tinguished himself everywhere. He is like my
shadow, and, I can see, tries to watch over my
precious carcass and get between me and danger.
He would be a deal more missed in the world
than I. Except you, old friend, I don’t know
who would care much if I were knocked over
to-morrow. Aunts and cousins are my nearest
relations. You know I never was a snuffler ;
but this sort of life makes one serious, if one
has any reverence at all in one. You’ll be glad
to have this line, if you don’t hear from me
again. I’ve often thought in the last month
that we shall never see one another again in
this world. But, whether in this world or any
other, you know I am and always shall be your
affectionate friend, H. East.”

“ Camp ON THE Sutlej. JaiiuarjL

“Dear Master Tom, — The captain’s last
words was, if any thing happened I was to be
sure to write and tell you. And so I take up
my pen, though you will know as I am not
used to writing, to tell you the misfortune as
has happened to our regiment. Because if you
was to ask any man in our regiment, let it be
who it would, he would say as the captain was
the best officer as ever led men. Not but what
there’s a many of them as will go to the front
as brave as lions,4p,nd don’t value shot no more
than if it was rotten apples ; and men as is men
will go after such. But ’tis the captain’s man-
ner and ways, with a kind word for any poor
fellow as is hurt, or sick and tired, and making-
no account of hisself, and, as you may say, no
bounce with him ; that’s Avhat makes the differ-
ence.

“As it might be last Saturday, ^Ye cqme
upon the enemy where he was posted very
strong, with guns all along his front, and
served till we got right up to them, the gunners
being cut down and bayoneted when we got
right up among them, and no quarter given ;
and there was great banks of earth, too, to
clamber over, and more guns behind ; so, with
the marching up in front and losing so many
officers and men, our regiment was that wild
when we got among them t’was awful to see,
and, if there was any prisoners taken, it was
more by mistake than not.

“Me and three or four more settled, when
the word came to prepare for action, to keep
with the captain, because ’twas known to every
one as no odds would stop him, and he would
never mind hisself. The dust and smoke and
noise was that thick you couldn’t sec nor hear
any thing after our regiment was in action ;
but, so far as I seen, when we was wheeled into
line, and got the word to advance, there was as

228

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

it might be as far as from our old cottage to the
Hawk’s Lynch to go over before we got to the
guns, which was playing into us all the way.
Our line went up very steady, only where men
was knocked down ; and, when we come to
within a matter of sixty yards, the officers
jumped out and waved their swords, for ’twas
no use to give words, and the ranks was broken
by reason of the running up to take the guns
from the enemy. Me and the rest went after
the captain ; but he, being so light of foot, was
first, by maybe ten yards or so, at the mound,
and so up befoi’e we was by him. But, though
they was all round him like bees when we got
to him, ’twas not then as he was hit. There
was more guns farther on, and we and they
drove on all together ; and, though they was
beaten, being fine tall men and desperate, there
was many of them fighting hard, and, as you
might say, a man scarcely knowed how he got
hit. I kept to the captain as close as ever I
could, but there was times when I had to mind
myself. Just as tve come to the last guns,
Larry, that’s the captain’s servant, was trying
by hisself to turn one of them round, so as to
fire on the enemy as they took the river to the
back of their lines all in a huddle. So I turned
to lend him a hand ; and when I looked round
next moment there was the captain a staggering
like a drunken man, and he so strong and lis-
som up to then, and never had a scratch since
the war begun, and this the last minute of it
jn-etty nigh, for the enemy was all cut to pieces
and drowned that day. I got to him before he
fell, and we laid Iiim down gently, and did the
best we could for him. But he was bleeding
dreadfully with a great gashAi his side, and his
arm broke, and two gunshot wounds. Our
surgeon was killed, and ’twas hours before his
wounds was dressed, and ’twill be God’s mercy
if ever he gets round ; though they do say, if
the fever and dysentery keeps off, and he can
get out of this country home, there’s no know-
ing but he may get the better of it all, but not to
serve with the regiment again for years to come.

“1 hope. Master Tom, as I’ve told you all
the captain would like as you should know ;
only, not being much used to writing, I hope
you will excuse mistakes. And if so be that it
won’t be too much troubling of yon, and the
captain should go home, and you could write
to say how things was going on at home as be-
fore, Avhich the captain always gave to me to
read when the mail come in, it would *be a
great help towards keeping up of a good heart
in a foreign land, which is hard at times to do.
There is some things which I make bold to send
by a comrade going home sick. I don’t know
as tliey will seem much, but I hope as you will
accept of the sword, which belonged to one of
their officers, and the rest to her. Also, on ac-
count of what was in the last piece as you for-
warded, I send a letter to go along with the
things, if Miss Winter, who liave been so kind,
or you, would deliver the same. To whom I
make bold to send my respects as well as to

yourself, and hoping this will find you v/ell and
all friends, and

“ From your respeeful,

“Henky Winbukn,
^^Color-sergeant, lOlsf Regiment.'^

“ March.

“My dear Tom, — I begin to think I may
see you again yet, but it has been a near shave.
I hope Sergeant Winburn’s letter, and the re-
turns, in which I see I was put down “ danger-
ously wounded,” will not have frightened you
very much. The war is over ; and if I live to
get down to Calcutta, you will see me in the
summer, please God. The end was like the
beginning — going right up to the guns. Our
regiment is frightfully cut up ; there are only
tl#ee hundred men left under arms — the rest
dead or in hospital. I am sick at heart at it,
and weak in body, and can only write a few
lines at a time, but will get on with this as I
can, in time for next mail.

^ sK

“ Since beginning this letter I have had an-
other relapse. So, in case I should never finish
it, I will say at once what I most want to say.
Winburn has saved my life more than once, and
is besides one of the noblest and bravest fellows
in the world ; so I mean to provide for him in
case any thing should happen to me. I have
made a will, and appointed you my executor,
and left him a legacy. You must buy his dis-
charge, and get him home and married to the
Englebourn beauty as soon as possible. But
what I want you to understand is, that if the
legacy isn’t enough to do this, and make all
straight with her old curmudgeon of a father, it
is my first wish that whatever will do it should
be made up to him. He has been in hospital
with a bad flesh wound, and has let out to me
the whole of his story, of which you had only
given me the heads. If that young woman
does not wait for him, and book him, I shall
give up all faith in petticoats. Now that’s done,
I feel more at ease.

“ Let me see. I haven’t written for six
weeks and more, just before our last great fight.
You’ll know all about it from the papers long
before you get this- — a bloody business — I anr
loath to think of it. I was knocked over in the
last of their entrenchments, and should then
and there have bled to death had it not been for
Winburn. He never left me, though the kill-
ing, and plundering, and roystering afterwards
was going on all around, and strong temptation
to a fellow tvhen his blood is up, and he sees his
comrades at it, after such work as we had had.
What’s more, he caught my Irish fellow and
made him stay by me too, and between them
they managed to prop me up and stop the
bleeding, though it was touch and go. I nev-
er thought they would manage it. You can’t
think what a curious feeling it is, the life going
out of you. I was perfectly conscious, and
knew all they were doing and saying, and
thought quite clearly, ‘‘though in a sort of

TOM BROWN

dreamy way, about you, and a whole jumble of
peojDle and things at home. It was the most
curious painless mixture of dream and life, get-
ting more dreamy every minute. I don’t sup-
pose I could have opened my eyes or spoken ;
at any rate, I had no wish to do so, and didn’t
try. Several times the thought of death came
close to me; and whether it was the odd state
I was in, or what else, I don’t know, but the
only feeling I had was one of intense curiosity.
I should think I must have lain there, with
Winburn supporting my head, and moistening
my lips with rum-and-water, for four or five
hours, before a doctor could be got. He had
managed to drive Larry about till he had found,
or borrowed, or stolen the drink, and then kept
him making short cruises in search of help in
the sliape of hospital-staff, ambulances, or doc-
tors, from which Master Larry always came
back without the slightest success. My belief

is, he employed those precious minutes, when
lie was from under his sergeant’s eye, in looting.
At last, Winburn got impatient, and I heard
him telling Larry what he was to do while he
was gone himself to find a doctor ; and then I
was moved as gently as if I had been a sick
girl. I heard him go off with a limp, but did
not know till long after of his wound.

“ Larry had made such a wailing and to-do
when they first found me, that a natural reaction
now set in, and he began gently and tenderly to
run over in his mind what could be made out
of ‘ the captin,’ and what would become of his
things. I found out this, partly through his
habit of talking to himself, and partly from the
precaution which he took of ascertaining where
my watch and purse were, and what else I had
upon me. It tickled me immensely to hear
him. Presently I found he was examining my
boots, which he pronouneed ‘ iligant entirely,’
and wondered whether he could get them on.
The ‘serjint’ would never want them. And
he then proceeded to assert, while he actually
began unlacing them, that the ‘captin’ would
never have ‘ bet him ’ but for the boots, which
‘ was worth ten feet in a furlong to any man.’

‘ Shure ’tis too late now ; but wouldn’t I
like to run him agin with the bare feet?’ I
couldn’t stand that, and just opened my eyes a
little, and rnoved my hand, and said, ‘ Done.’
‘I wanted to add, ‘you rascal,’ but that was too
much for me. Larry’s face of horror, which I
just caught through my half- opened eyes,
Avould have made me roar, if I had had strength
for it. I believe the resolution I made that he
should never go about in my boots helped me
to pull through ; but, as soon as Winburn came
back with the doctor. Master Larry departed,
and I much doubt whether I shall ever set eyes
on him again in the flesh. Not if he can help

it, certainly. The regiment, what’s left of it, is
away in the Punjaub, and he with it. Win-
burn, as I told you, is hard hit, but no danger.

I have great hopes that he will be invalided.
You may depend upon it he will escort me
home, if any interest of mine can manage it;

AT OXFORD. 229

and the dear old chief is so kind to me that I
think he will arrange it somehow.

“I must bo wonderfully better to have spun
such a yarn. Writing those first ten lines
nearly finished me, a week ago, and now I am
scarcely tired after all this scrawl. If that
rascal Larry escapes hanging another year,
and comes back home, I will run him yet, and
thrash his head oif.

“There is something marvellously life-giving
in the idea of sailing for old England again ;
and I mean to make a strong fight for seeing
you again, old boy. God bless you ! Write
again for the chance, directing to my agents at
Calcutta, as before. Ever your half-alive, but
whole-hearted and affectionate friend,

“H. East.”

CHAPTER XLV.
master’s term.

One more look into the old college where
we have spent so much time already, not, I
hope, altogether unpleasantly. Our hero is up
in the summer term, keeping his three weeks’
residence, the necessary preliminary to an M.A.
degree. We find him sitting in Hardy’s rooms ;
tea is over, scouts out of college, candles light-
ed, and silence reigning, except when distant
sounds of mirth come from some under-grad-
uates’ rooms on the opposite side of quad,
through the open windows.

Hardy is deep in the budget of Indian letters,
some of which we have read in the last chapter ;
and Tom reads them over again as his friend
finishes them, and then carefully folds them up
and puts them back in their places in a large
pocket-case. Except an occasional explanato-
ry remark, or exclamation of interest, no word
passes until Hardy finishes the last letter.
Then he breaks out into praises of the two
Harrys, which gladden Tom’s heart as he fast-
ens the case, and puts it back in his pocket,
saying, “ Yes, you won’t find two finer fellows
in a long summer’s day ; no, nor in twenty.”

“ And you expect them home, then, in a week
or two ?”

“Yes, I think so. Just about the time I
shall be going down.”

“ Don’t talk about going down. You haven’t
been here a week.”

“Just a week. One out of three. Three
weeks wasted in keeping one’s Master’s term !
Why can’t you give a fellow his degree quietly,
without making him come and kick his heels
here for three weeks ?”

“You ungrateful dog! Do you mean to say
you haven’t enjoyed coming back, and sitting
in dignity in the bachelors’ seats in chapel, and
at the bachelors’ table in hall, and thinking
how much wiser you are than the under-gradu-
ates? Besides, your old friends want to see
you, and you ought to want to see them.”

“Well, I’m very glad to see something of you
again, old fellow. I don’t find that a year’s ab-

230

TOM BKOWN AT OXFOED.

sence has made any change in you. But who
else is there that I care to see? My old
friends are gone, and the year has made a great
gap between me and the youngsters. They
look on me as a sort of don.”

“ Of course they do. Why, yon are a sort of
don. You will be an M.A. in a fortnight, and
a member of Convocation.”

‘ ‘ Very likely ; but I don’t appreciate the dig-
nity. I can tell you being up here now is any
thing but enjoyable. You have never broken
with the place. And then, you always did
your duty, and have done the college credit.
You can’t enter into the feelings of a fellow
Avhose connection with Oxford has been quite
broken off, and who wasted three parts of his
time here, when he comes back to keep his
Master’s.”

“ Come, come, Tom. You might have read
more, certainly, with benefit to yourself and the
college, and taken a higher degree. But, after
all, didn’t the place do you a great deal of
good ? and you didn’t do it much harm. I
don’t like to see you in this sort of gloomy
state ; it isn’t natural to you.”

“It is becoming natural. You haven’t seen
much of me during the last year, or you would
have remarked it. And then, as I tell you,
Oxford, when one has nothing to do in it but
to moon about, thinking over one’s past follies
and sins, isn’t cheerful. It never was a very
cheerful place to me at the best of times.”

“ Not even at pulling times?”

“Well, the river is the part I like best to
think of. But even the river makes me rather
melancholy now. One feels one has done with
it.”

‘ ‘ Why, Tom, I believe your melancholy comes
from their not having asked you to pull in the
boat.”

“ Perhaps it does. Don’t you call it degrad-
ing to be pulling in the torpid in one’s old age?”
“ Mortified vanity, man ! They have a capi-
tal boat. I wonder how we should have liked
to have been turned out for some bachelor just
because he had pulled a good oar in his day ?”

‘ ‘ Not at all. I don’t blame the young ones,
and I hope I do my duty in the torpid. By-
the-way, they’re an uncommonly nice set of
youngsters. Much better behaved in every Avay
than we Avere, unless it is that they put on their
best manners before me.”

“No, I don’t think they do. The fact is,
they are really fine young fellow's.”

“ So I think. And I’ll tell you what. Jack —
since Ave are sitting and talking our minds to
one another at last, like old times — somebody has
made the most Avonderful change in this college.
I rather think it is seeing Avhat St. Ambrose’s is
now-, and thinking Avhat it Avas in my time, and
Avhat an uncommon member of society I should
have turned out if I had had the luck to have
.been here now instead of then, that makes me
doAvn in the mouth — more even than having to
pull in the torpid instead of the racing boat.”
“You do think it is improA'ed, then?”

“Think! Why it is a different place alto-
gether ; and, as you are the only new tutor, it
must have been your doing. Noav I Avant to
know your secret.”

“ I’ve no secret, except taking a real interest in
all that the men do, and living Avith them as
much as I can. You may fancy it isn’t much
of a trial to me to steer the boat doAvn, or run on
the bank and coach the creAv.”

“Ah! I remember; you Avere beginning that
before I left, in your first year. I knew that
would answ’er.”

“Yes. The fact is, I find that just Avhat I
like best is the very best thing for the men.
With A'ery few exceptions they are all glad to be
stirred up, and meet me nearly half-way in read-
ing, and three-quarters in CA'ery thing else. I
belicA-e they Avould make me Captain to-mor-
roAV.”

“ And Avliy don’t you let them, then ?”

“No; there’s a time for every Jthing. I go
in in the scratch fours for thepeAvters, and — more
by token — my crew Avon them tAVO years running.
Look at my trophies,” and he pointed to tw'o
peAvter pots, engraA'ed Avith the college arms,
Avhich stood on his sideboard.

“Well, I dare say you’re right. But what
does the president say ?”

“ Oh, he is a convert. Didn’t you see him
on the bank Avhen you torpids made your bump
the other night?”

“ No, you don’t mean it ! Well, do you know,
a sort of vision of black tights and a broad-brim-
med hat crossed me, but I never gaA-e it a sec-
ond thought. And so the president comes out
to see the St. Ambrose boat row ?”

“ Seldom misses tAvo nights running.”

“Then ‘ carry me out, and bury me decent-
ly.’ Have you seen old Tom Avalking round
PeckAvater lately on his clapper, smoking a ci-
gar Avith the Dean of Christchurch ? Don’t be
afraid. I am ready for any thing you like to
tell me. DraAV any amount you like on my
faith ; I shall honor the draft after that.”

“ The president isn’t a bad judge of an oar,
Avhen he sets his mind to it.”

“ Isn’t he ? But, I say. Jack — no sell — hoAv
in the Avorld did it happen?”

‘ ‘ I believe it happened chiefly^ through his
talks Avith me. When I was first made tutor he
sent for me and told me he had heard I encour-*
aged the young men in boating, and he must
positively forbid it. I didn’t much care about
staying up ; so I Avas pretty plain Avith him, and
said, ‘ if I Avas not alloAved to take the line I
thought best in such matters I must resign at
the end of term.’ He assented, but afteiuvards
thought better of it, and sent for me again, and
Ave had several encounters. I took my ground
very civilly but firmly, and he had to give up
one objection after another. I think the turn-
ing-point Avas Avhen he quoted St. Paul on me,
and said I Avas teaching boys to Avorship physical
strength, instead of teaching them to keep under
their bodies and bring them into subjection.
Of course I countered him there Avith tremon-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

dous effect. The old boy took it very well, only
saying he feai-ed it was no use to argue further
— iu this matter of boat-racing he had come to
a conclusion, not without serious thought, many
years before. However, he came round quietly,
and so he has on other points. In fact, he is a
wonderfully open-minded man for his age, if
you only put things to him the right way.”

“ Has he come round about gentlemen-com-
moners ? I see you’ve only two or three up.”
“Yes. We haven’t given up taking them al-
together. I hope that may come soon. But I
and another tutor took to plucking them ruth-
lessly, at matriculation, unless they were quite
up to the commoner standard. The consequence
v>'as, a row in common room. We stood out,
and won. Luckily, as you know, it has always
been given out here that all under-graduates,
gentleraen-commoners and commoners, have to
pass the same eollege examinations, and to at-
tend the same courses of lectures. You know
also what a' mere sham and pretense the rule
had become. Well, we simply made a reality
of it, and in answer to all objectors said, ‘Is it
our rule or not ? If it is, we are bound to act
on it. If you want to alter it, there are the
regular ways of doing so.’ After a little grum-
bling, they let us have our way, and the conse-
quence is, that velvet is getting scarce at St.
Ambrose.”

“What a blessing! What other miracles
have you been performing ?”

“ The best reform W'e have carried is throw-
ing the kitchen and cellar open to the under-
graduates.”

“ W-h-e-w ! That’s just the sort of reform
we should have, appreciated. Fancy Drysdale’s
lot with the key of the college cellars at about
ten o’clock on a shiny night.”

“You don’t quite understand the reform.
You remember, when you were an under-gradu-
ate you couldn’t give a dinner in college, and
you had to buy your wine anywhere ?”

“Yes ; and awful fire-water we used to get.
The governor supplied me, like a wise man.”
“Well, we have placed the college in the re-
lation of benevolent father. Every under-grad-
uate now can give two dinners a term in his
own rooms from the kitehen ; or more, if he
comes and asks, and has any reason to give.
We take care that they have a good dinner at a
reasonable rate, and the men are delighted with
the arrangement. I don’t believe there are
three men in the college now who have hotel
bills. And we let them have all their wine out
of the college cellars.”

“ That’s what I call good common sense.
Of course it must answer in every way. And
you find they all come to you ?”

“ Almost all. They can’t get any thing like
the wine we give them at the price, and they
know it.”

“ Do you make them pay ready money?”
“The dinners and wine are charged in their
battel bills ; so they have to pay once a term,
just as they do for their orders at commons.”

“ It must swell their battel bills awfully.”

“Yes, but battel bills always come in at the
beginning of term, when they are flush of mon-
ey. Besides, they all know that battel bills
must be paid. In a small way, it is the best
thing that ever was done for St. Ambrose’s.
You see it cuts so many ways. Keeps men in
college, knocks off the most objectionable bills
at inns and pastry cooks’, keeps them from be-
ing poisoned, makes them pay their bills regu-
larly, shows them that we like them be able
to live like gentlemen — ”

“ And lets you dons know what they are all
about, and how much they spend in the way of
entertaining.”

“Yes ; and a very good thing for them too.
They know that we shall not interfere while they
behave like gentlemen.”

“ Oh, I’m not objecting. And was this your
doing, too?”

“No; a joint business. We hatched it in
the common room, and then the bursar spoke
to the president, who was furious, and said we
were giving the sanction of the college to dis-
graceful luxury and extravagance. Luckily he
had not the power of stopping us, and now is
convinced.”

“ The goddess of common sense seems to have
alighted again in the quad of St. Ambrose.
You’ll never leave the place. Jack, now you’re
beginning to get every thing your own way.”

“ On the contrary, I don’t mean to stop up
more than another year at the outside. I have
been tutor nearly three years now ; that’s about
long enough.”

“Do you think you’re right? Y’"ou seem to
have hit on your line in life wonderfully. You
like the work, and the work likes you. You are
doing a heap of good up here. You’ll be pres-
ident in a year or two, depend on it. I should
say you had better stick -to Oxford.”

“ No ; I should be of no use in a year or two.
We want a constant current of fresh blood here.”

“In a general way. But you don’t get a
man every day who can throw himself into the
men’s pursuits, and can get hold of them in the
right way. And then, after all, when a fellow
has got such work cut out for him as you have,
Oxford must be an uncommonly pleasant place
to live in.”

“Pleasant enough in many ways. But you
seem to have forgotten how you used to rail
against it.”

“ Yes ; because I never hit off the right ways
of the place. But, if I had taken a first and
got a fellowship, I should like it well enough I
dare say.”

“Being a fellow, on the contrary, makes it
worse. While one was an under-graduate one
could feel virtuous and indignant at the vices
of Oxford, at least at those which one did not
indulge in, particularly at the flunkeyism and
money-worship which are our most prevalent
and disgraceful sins. But when one is a fellow,
it is quite another affair. They become a sore
bui’den then, enough to break one’s heart.”

232

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“ Why, Jack, 'we’rc changing characters to-
night. Fancy your coming out in the abusive
line ! Why, I never said harder things of Alma
Mater myself. However, there’s plenty of flunk-
eyism and money-worship everywhere else.”
“Yes ; but it is not so heart-breaking in oth-
er places. When one thinks what a great cen-
tre of learning and faith like Oxford ought to
be — that its highest educational work should
just be the deliverance of us all from flunkey-
ism and ijroney-worship — and then look at mat-
ters here without rose-colored spectacles, it gives
one sometimes a sort of chilly leaden despond-
ency which is very hard to struggle against.”

“ I am sorry to hear you talk like that. Jack,
for one can’t help loving the place, after all.”

“ So I do, God knows. If I didn’t, I shouldn’t
care for its shortcomings.”

“Well, the flunkeyism and money-worship
were bad enough, but I don’t think they were
the worst things — at least not in my day. Our
neglects were almost worse than our worships.”
“You mean the want of all reverence for
parents ? Well, perhaps that lies at the root of
the false worships. They spring up on the va-
cant soil.”

“And the want of reverence for women.
Jack. The worst of all, to my mind !”

“Perhaps you are right. But tve are not at
the bottom yet.”

“ How do you mean ?”

“I mean that we must worship God before
Ave can rev^erence parents or women, or root out
flunkeyism and money-worship.”

“Yes. But, after all, can we fairly lay that
sin on Oxford ? Surel}", whatever may be grow-
ing up side by side with it, there’s more Chris-
tianity here than almost anywhere else.”

“Plenty of common-room Christianit}" — be-
lief in a dead God. There, I have never said
it to any one but you, but that is the slough Ave
haA'e to get out of. Don’t think that I despair
for us. We shall do it yet; but it Avill bo sore
Avork, stripping off the comfortable wine-party
religion in Avhich we are Avrapped up — Avork for
our strongest and our Avisest.”

“ And yet you think of leaving ?”

“There are other reasons. 1 Avill tell you
some day. But noAv, to turn to other matters,
hoAv have you been getting on this last year ?
You write so seldom that I am all behindhand.”
“Oh, much the same as usual.”

“ Then you are still like one of those Avho
Avent out to David !”

“ No, I’m not in debt.”

“But discontented ?”

“ Prett}’- much like you there. Jack. IIoav-
CA'cr, content is no virtue, that I can see, Avhile
there’s any thing to mend. Who is going to
be contented Avith game-preserving, and corn-
laAvs, and grinding the faces of the poor ? Da-
vid’s camp Avas a better place than Saul’s, any
day.”

Hardy got up, opened a draAver, and took
out a bundle of papers, Avhich Tom recognized
as the “ Wessex Freeman.” He felt rather un-

comfortable, as his friend seated himself again,
and began looking them over.

“You see what I have here,” he said.

Tom nodded.

“ Well, there are some of the articles I should
like to ask you about, if you don’t object.”
“No; goon.”

“ Here is one, then, to begin Avith. I Avon’t
read it all. Let me see ; here is what I Avas
looking for,” and he began reading: “‘One
Avould think, to hear these landlords, our rulers,
talk, that the glorious green fields, the deep
Avoods, the everlasting hills, and the rivers that
run among them, were made for the sole pur-
pose of ministering to their greedy lusts and
mean ambitions ; that they may roll out among
um-ealities their pitiful mock liv^es, from their
silk and lace cradles to their spangled coffins,
studded with silver knobs and lying coats of
arms, reaping Avhere they haA'e not soAvn, and
gathering where they have not streAved ; mak-
ing the omer small and the ephah great, that
they may sell the refuse of tlie Avheat — ’ ”
“That’ll do. Jack; but what’s the date of
that paper ?”

“ July last. Is it yours, then ?”

“Yes. And I alloAV it's too strong and one-
sided. I haA'e given up Avriting altogether;
Avill that satisfy you ? I don’t see my OAvn Avay
clear enough yet. But for all that, I’m not
ashamed of Avhat I Avrote in that paper.”

“ I haA'e nothing more to say after that, ex-
cept that I’m heartily glad you have given up
Avriting for the present.”

“But I saj', old fellow, Iioav did you get
these papers and knoAV about my articles ?”
“They w'ere sent me. Shall I burn tiiem
noAA’’, or Avould you like to have tliem ? We
needn’t say any thing more about them.”

“Burn them, by all means. I suppose a
friend sent them to you ?”

“I suppose so.” Hardy Avent on burning
the papers in silence ; and as Tom Avatclied him,
a sudden light seemed to break upon him.

“I say. Jack,” he said presently, “a little
bird has been Avhispering something to me about
that friend.” Hardy Avinced a little, and re-
doubled his diligence in burning the papers.
Tom looked on smiling, and thinking hoAv to
go on, noAv that he had so unexpectedly turned
the tables on his monitor, Avhen the clock struck
tAA^elve.

“Hallo!” he said, getting up; “time for
me to knock out, or old Copas Avill be in bed.
To go back to Avhere Ave started from to-night —
as soon as East and Harry Winburn get back
Ave shall haA’-e some jolly doings at Englebourn.
There’ll be a Avedding, I hope, and you’ll come
OA'cr and do parson for us, Avon’t you ?”

“You mean for Batty? Of course I Avill.”
“The little bird Avhispered to me that you
Avouldn’t dislike visiting that part of the old
county. Good-night, Jack. I Avish you suc-
cess, old felloAV, Avith all niA' heart, and I hope,
after all, that you may leaA'C St. Ambrose’s
Avithin the year.”

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

233

CHAPTER XL VI.

FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN.

If a knowledge of contemporary history must
be reckoned as an important element in the
civilization of any people, then I am afraid that
the good folk of Englebourn must have been
content, in the days of our story, with a very
low place on the ladder. How, indeed, was
knowledge to percolate so as to reach down to
the foundations of Englebournian society — the
stratum upon which all others rest — the common
agricultimal laborer, producer of corn and other
grain, the careful and stolid nurse and guardian
of youthful oxen, sheep, and pigs, many of them
fill’ better fed and housed than his oivn children ?
All-penetrating as she is, one can not help won-
dering that she did not give up Englebourn
altogether as a hopeless job.

So far as written -periodical instruction is
concerned (with the exception of the “ Quarter-
ly,” which Dr. Winter had taken in from its
commencement, but rarely opened), the supply
was limited to at most half a dozen weekly pa-
pers. A London journal, sound in Church and
State principles, most respectable but not other-
wise than heavy, came every Saturday to the rec-
tory. The Conservative county paper was taken
in at the Red Lion ; and David the constable
and the blacksmith clubbed together to purchase
the Liberal pgper, by help of which they man-
aged to wage unequal war wdth the knot of vil-
lage quidnuncs who assembled almost nightly
at the bar of the Tory beast above referred to
— that king of beasts, red indeed in color, but of
the truest blue in political principle. Besides
these, perhaps three or four more papers were
taken by the farmers. But, scanty as the food
was, it was quite enough for the mouths ; in-
deed, when the papers once passed out of the
parlors they had for the most part performed
their mission. Few of the ‘farm-servants, male
or female, had curiosity or scholarship enough
to spell through the dreary columns.

And oral teaching was not much more plen-
tiful, as how w'as it likely to be? Englebourn
was situated on no trunk-road, and the amount
pf intercourse between it and the rest of the
world was of the most limited kind. The rec-
tor never left home ; the curate at rare inter-
vals. Most of *the farmers went to market once
a week, and dined at their ordinary, discussing
county politics after their manner, but bringing
home little, except as much food and drink as
they could cleverly carry. The carrier went
to and from New'bury once a week ; but he was
a silent man, chiefly bent on collecting and sell-
ing butter. The postman, who was deaf, only
Avent as flir as the next village. The wagoners
drove their masters’ produce to market from
time to time, and boozed arvay an hour or two
in the kitchen, or tap, or skittle-alley, of some
small public-house in the nearest town, Avhile
their horses rested. With the above exceptions,
probably not one of the villagers strayed ten
miles from home, from year's end to year’s end.

As to visitors, an occasional peddler or small
commercial traveller turned up about once a
quarter. A few boys and girls, more enterpris-
ing than their fellows, Avent out altogether into
the Avorld, of their own accord, in the course of
the year ; and an occasional burly ploughboy,
or carter’s boy, Avas entrapped into taking the
Queen’s shilling by some subtle recruiting-ser-
geant. But fcAV of these Avere seen again, ex-
cept at long intervals. The yearly village feasts,
haiwest-homes, or a meet of the hounds on En-
glebourn Common, Avere the most exciting CA-ents
Avhich in an ordinary Avay stirred the surface of
Englebourn life ; only faintest and most distant
murmurs of the din and strife of the great outer
world, of wars and rumors of AA:ars, the fall of
governments and the throes of nations, reached
that primitive, out-of-the-Avay little village.

A change Avas already showing itself since
Miss Winter had been old enough to look after
the schools. The Avaters Avere beginning to stir ;
and by this time, no doubt, the parish boasts a
regular book-haAvker and reading-room ; but at
that day Englebourn Avas like one of those small
ponds you may find in some nook of a hill-side,
the banks grown over Avith underAvood, to Avhich
neither man nor beast, scarcely the Aviuds of
heaven, have any access. When you have found
such a pond you may create a great excitement
among the easy-going neAvts and frogs Avho in-
habit it by throwing in a pebble. The splash
in itself is a small splash enough, and the waA'cs
Avhich circle aAvay from it are very tiny Avaves,
but they move over the Avhole face of the pond,
and are of more interest to the frogs than a nor’-
Avester in the Atlantic.

So the approaching return of Harry Win-
burn, and the story of his doings at the Avars,
and of the AA'onderful things he had sent home,
stirred Englebourn to its depths. In that small
corner of the earth the sergeant was of far more
importance than governor-general and com-
mander-in-chief. In fact, it Avas probably the
common belief that he Avas somehoAv the head of
the Avhole business ; and India, the Avar, and all
that hung thereon, Avere looked at and cared for
only as they had seiwed to bring him out. So
careless Avere the good folk about every thing in
the matter except their own hero, and so Avon-
derful Avere the romances Avhich soon got abroad
about him, that Miss Winter, tired of explaining
again and again to the old Avomen without the
slightest elFect on the parochial faith, bethought
her of haA’ing a lecture on the subject of India
and the Avar in the parish school-room.'

Full of this idea, she Avrote off to Tom, Avho
was the medium of communication on Indian
matters, and propounded it to him. The diffi-
culty Avas, that Mr. Walker, the curate, the only
person competent to girm it, Avas going aAA-ay
directly for a three-Aveeks’ holiday, having ar-
ranged with tAAD neighboring curates to take his
Sunday duty for him. What AA-as to be done ?
Harry might be back any day, it seemed ; so
there aa’us no time to be lost. Could Tom come
himself, and help her?

234

TOM BKOWN AT OXFORD.

Tom could not ; but be -wrote back to say that
his friend Hardy was just getting away from
Oxford for the long vacation, and would gladly
take Mr. Walker’s duty for the three weeks, if
Dr. Winter approved, on his way home ; by
which arrangement Englebourn would not be
without an efficient parson on week-days, and she
would have the man of all others to help her in
utilizing the sergeant’s history for the instruc-
tion of the bucolic mind. The arrangement,
moreover, would be particularly happy, because
Hardy had already pi’omised to perform the
marriage ceremony, which Tom and she had
settled would take place at the earliest possible
moment after the return of the Indian heroes.

Dr. Winter was very glad to accept the offer ;
and so, when they parted at Oxford, Hardy went
to Englebourn, where we must leave him for
the present. Tom went home — whence, in a few
days, he had to hurry down to Southampton to
meet the two Harrys. He was much shocked
at first to see the state of his old school-fellow.
East looked haggard and pale in the face, not-
withstanding the sea-voyage. His clothes hung
on him as if they had been made for a man of
twice his size, and he walked with difficulty by
the help of a large stick. But he had lost none
of his indomitableness, laughed at Tom’s long
face, and declared that he felt himself getting
better and stronger every day.

“If you had only seen me at Calcutta,” he
said, “you would sing a different song. Eh,
Winburn ?”

Harry Winburn was much changed, and had
acquired all the composed and self-reliant look
which is so remarkable in a good non-commis-
sioned officer. Readiness to obey and command
was stamped on every line of his face ; but it
required all his powers of self-restraint to keep
within bounds his delight at getting home again.
His wound was quite healed, and his health re-
established by the voyage ; and when Tom saw
how wonderfully his manners and carriage were
improved, and how easily his uniform sat on
him, he felt quite sure that all would be soon
right at Englebourn, and that Katie and he
would be justified in their prophecies and prepa-
rations. The invalids had to report themselves
in London, and thither the three proceeded to-
gether. When this Avas done, Harry Winburn
was sent off at once. He resisted at first, and
begged to be allowed to stay with his captain
until the captain could go into Berkshire him-
self. But he was by this time too much accus-
tomed to discipline not to obey a positive order,
and was comforted by Tom’s assurance that he
would not leave East, and would do every thing
for him which the sergeant had been accustomed
to do.

Three days later, as East and Tom were sit-
ting at breakfast, a short note camp from Miss
Winter, telling of Harry’s arrival — hoAv tlie
bells were set ringing to welcome him ; how Mr.
Hardy had preached the most Avonderful sermon
on his story the next day ; above all, how Patty
had surrendered at discretion, and the banns

had been called for the first time. So the soon-
er they could come down the better — as it Avas
A^ery important that no time should be lost, lest
some of the old jealousies and quarrels should
break out again. Upon reading and considering
which letter. East resolved to start for Engle-
bourn at once, and Tom to accompany him.

There Avas one person to whom Harry’s return
and approaching Avedding was a subject of un-
mixed joy and triumph, and that Avas David the
constable. He had ahvays been a sincere friend
to Harry, and had stood up for him Avhen all the
parish respectabilities had turned against him,
and had prophesied that he would live to be a
credit to the place. So noAv David felt himself
an inch higher as he saAV Harry walking about
in his uniform with his sAveetheart, the admira-
tion of all Englebourn. But, besides all the un-
selfish pleasure Avhich David enjoyed on his
young friend’s account, a. little piece of private
and personal gratification came to him on his
OAA'n. Ever since Harry’s courtship had begun
David had felt himself in a false position to-
Avards, and had suffered under, old Simon, the
rector’s gardener. The necessity for keeping
the old man in good humor for Harry’s sake
had ahvays been present to the constable’s
mind ; and, for the privilege of putting in a good
Avord for his favorite every noAv and then, he had
alloAved old Simon to assume an air of superiority
OA'er him, and to trample upon him and dogma-
tize to him, even in the matters of floAvers and
bees. This had been the more galling to David
on account of old Simon’s intolerant Toryism,
which the constable’s soul rebelled against, ex-
cept in the matter of Church music. On this
one point they agreed, but even here Simon
managed to be unpleasant. He Avould lay the
Avhole blame of the changes Avhich had been ef-
fected upon David, accusing him of having giATii
in Avhen there Avas no need. As there was noth-
ing but a wall between the rectory garden and
David’s little strip of ground, in which he spent
all his leisure time until the shades of eA^ening
summoned him to the bar of the Red Lion for
his daily pint and pipe, the tAvo Avere constantly
Avithin hearing of one another, and Simon, in
times past, had seldom neglected an opportunity
of making himself disagreeable to his long-suf-
fering neighbor.

But noAV David Avas a free nlan again ; and
he took the earliest occasion of making the
change in his manner apparent to Simon, and
of getting, as he called it, “ upsides” Avith him.
One Avould haA^e thought, to look at him, that
the old gardener Avas as pachydermatous as a
rhinoceros ; but somehoAv he seemed to feel that
things had changed betAveen them, and did not
appreciate an intervicAV Avith David noAV nearly
so much as of old. So he found A'ery little to
do in that pai't of the garden Avhich abutted on
the constable’s premises. When he could not
help Avorking there, he chose the times at Avhich
David Avas most likely to be engaged, or even
took the trouble to ascertain that he was not at
home.

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

235

Early on MiJsummor-day, old Simon reared
his ladder against the boundary-wall, with the
view of “ doctorin’ ” some of the fruit-trees, re-
lying on a parish meeting at which the consta-
ble’s presence was required. But he had not
more than half finished his operations before
David returned from vestry, and, catching sight
of the top of the ladder and Simon’s head above
the wall, laid aside all other business, and de-
scended into the garden.

Simon kept on at his work, only replying by
a jerk of the head and one of his grunts to
his neighbor’s salutation.

David took his coat off and his pruning-knife
out, and, establishing himself within easy shot
of his old oppressor, opened fire at once :
“Thou’st gi’en thy consent, then?”

“’Tis no odds, consent or none — her’s old
enough to hev her own waay.”

“But thou’st gi’en thy consent?”

“Ees, then, if thou wilt hev’t,”said Simon,
surlily ; “ wut then ?”

“So I heerd,” said David, indulging in an
audible chuckle.

“What bist a laughin’ at ?”

“I be laughin’ to think how folks changes.
Dost mind the hard things as thou hast judged
and said o’ Harry ? Not as ever I known thy
judgment to be o’ much account, ’cept about
roots. But thou saidst, times and times, as a
would come to the gallows.”

“ So a med yet — so a med yet,” answ'ered Si-
mon. “Not but wut I wishes well to un, and
bears no grudges ; but others as hev got the law
ov un medn’t.”

“’Tis he as hev got grudges to bear. He
don’t need none o’ thy forgiveness.”

“Pr’aps a medn’t. But hev ’em got the law
ov un, or hevn’t ’em ?”

“Wut dost mean — got the law ov un ?”

“ Thaay warrants as wur out agen un, along
wi’ the rest as was transpworted auver Farmer
Tester’s job.”

“ Oh, he’ve got no call to be afeard o’ thaay
now. Thou knowst I hears how ’tis laid down
at Sessions and ’Sizes, wher’ Fve a been this
twenty year.”

“Like enuff. Only, wut’s to hinder thaay
tryin’ ov un, if thaay be a minded to’t ? That’s
wut I wants to know.”

“ ’Tis wut the counsellors calls the Statut o’
Lamentations,” said the constable, proudly.

“ Wutever’s Lamentations got to do wi’t ?”

“ A gurt deal, I tell ’ee. What dost thou
know o’ Lamentations ?”

“Lamentations cums afore Ezekiel in the
Bible.”

“That ain’t no kin to the Statut o’ Lamen-
tations. But there’s summut like to’t in the
Bible,” said the constable, stopping his work to
consider a moment. “Dost mind the year
when the land wur all to be guv back to thaay
as owned it fust, and debts wur to be wiped
out ?”

“Ees, I minds summut o’ that.”

“Well, this here statut says, if so be as a

man hev bin to the wars, and sarvcd his country
like, as nothin’ shan't be reckoned agen he, let
alone murder. Nothin’ can’t do away wi’ mur-
der.”

“ No, nor oughtn’t. Hows’mdcver, you seems
clear about the law on’t. There’s Miss a call-
in’.”

And old Simon’s head disappeared as he de-
scended the ladder to answer the summons of
his young mistress, not displeased at having his
fears as to the safety of his future son-in-law sot
at rest by so eminent a legal authority as the
constable. Fortunately for Harry, the consta-
ble’s law was not destined to be tried. Young
Wurley was away in London. Old Tester was
bedridden with an accumulation of diseases
brought on by his bad life. His illness made
him more violent and tyrannical than ever ;
but he could do little harm out of his own room,
for no one ever went to see him, and the wretch-
ed farm-servant who attended him was much
too frightened to tell him any thing of what
was going on in the parish. There was no one
else to revive proceedings against Harry.

David pottered on at his bees and his flowers
till old Simon returned, and ascended his ladder
again.

“You be ther’ still, be ’ee?” he said, as soon
as he saw David.

“Ees. Any news?”

“Ah ! news enuff. He as Avur Harry’s cap-
tain and young Mr. Brown be cornin’ down to-
morrow, and hev tuk all the Red Lion to their-
selves. And thaay bcant content to wait for
banns — not thaay — and so ther’s to be a license
got for Saturday. ’Tain’t scarce decent, that
’tain’t.”

“ ’Tis best to get drougli wi’t,” said the con-
stable.

“Then nothin’ll sarve ’em but the church
must be hung wi’ flowers, and wher’ be thaay to
cum from without strippin’ and starvin’ ov my
beds? ’Tis shameful to see how folks acts wi’
flowers nowadays, a cuttin’ on ’em and puttin’
on ’em about, as prodigal as though thaay grow-
ed o’ theirselves.”

“ So ’tis shameful,” said David, whose sym-
pathies for flowers were all with Simon. “I
heers tell as young Squire Wurley hevs ’em on
table at dinner-time instead o’ the wittles.”

“Do’ee though ! I calls it reg’lar papistry,
and so I tells Miss ; but her only laughs.”

The constable slrook his head solemnly as he
replied, “ Her’ve been led away wi’ such doin’s
ever sence Mr. Walker cum, and took to organ-
playin’ and chantin’.”

“And he ain’t no sich gurt things in the
pulpit neether, ain’t Mr. Walker,” chimed in
Simon (the two had not been so in harmony for
years). “I reckon as he ain’t nothin’ to speak
ov alongside o’ this here new un as hev tuk his
place. He’ve a got a good deal o’ move in un,
he hev.”

“ Ah, so a hev. A wunnerful sight o’ things
a tolled us t’other night about the Indians and
the wars.”

236

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED.

“Ah ! talking cums as nat’ral to he as but-
termilk to a litterin’ sow.”

“Thou shouldst a heerd un, though, about
the battles. I can’t mind the neames on ’em —
let me see — ”

“ I dwun’t vally the neames,” interrupted Si-
mon. “ Thaay makes a deal o’ fuss auver’t aal,
but I dwun’t tek no account on’t. ’Tain’t like
the owld wars and fightin’ o’ the French, this
here fightin’ wi’ blackamoors, let ’em talk as
thaay wool.”

“ No more ’tain’t. But ’tAvur a ’mazin’ fine
talk as he gi’n us. Hev’ee seed ought ’twixt
he and young missus ?”

“Nothin’ out o’ th’ common. I got plenty
to do without lookin’ arter the women, and
’tain’t no bisness o’ mine, nor o’ thine neetlier.”

David was preparing a stout rejoinder to this
rebuke of the old retainer of the Winter family
on his curiosity, but was summoned by his wife
to the house to attend a customer ; and by the
time he could get out again Simon had disap-
peared.

The next day East and Tom arrived, and
took possession of the Eed Lion ; and Engle-
bourn was soon in a ferment of preparation for
the wedding. East was not the man to do
things by halves; and, seconded as he was by
Miss Winter and Hardy and Tom, had soon
made arrangements for all sorts of merry-mak-
ing. The school-children were to have a whole
holiday, and, after scattering flowers at church
and marching in the bridal procession, were to
be entertained in a tent pitched in the home
paddock of the rectory, and to have an afternoon
of games and prizes, and tea and cake. The
bell-ringers, Harry’s old comrades, were to have
five shillings apiece, and a cricket-match, and a
dinner afterwards at the second public-house, to
which any other of his old friends whom Harry
chose to ask were to be also invited. The old
men and women were to be fed in the village
school-room ; and East and Tom were to enter-
tain a select party of the farmers and tradesmen
at the Eed Lion, the tap of which hostelry was
to be thrown open to all comers at the Cap-
tain’s expense. It was not without considera-
ble demur on the part of Miss Winter that some
of these indiscriminate festivities were allowed
to pass. But after consulting with Hardy she
relented, on condition that the issue of beer at
the two public-houses should be put under the
control of David the constable, who, on his part,
promised that law and order should be well
represented and maintained on the occasion.
“ Arter all. Miss, you sees, ’tis only for once in
awaay,” he said; “ and ’twill make ’em remem-
ber aal as hev bin said to ’em about the Indians
and the rest on’t.” So the Captain and his
abettors, having gained the constable as an ally,
prevailed ; and Englebomm, much wondering at
itself, made ready for a general holiday.

CHAPTEE XL VII.

THE WEDDING-DAY.

One— more— poor— man— un-done—

One— more — poor— man— un-done.

The belfry-tower rocked and reeled, as that
peal rang out, now merry, now scornful, now
plaintive, from those narrow belfry windows,
into the bosom of the soft south-west wind
which wms playing round the old gray tower of
Englehourn church. And the wind caught the
peal and played with it, and bore it away over
rectory and village street, and many a home-
stead, and gently waving field of ripening corn,
and rich pasture and water-meadow, and tall
whispering woods of the Grange, and rolled it
against the hill-side, and up the slope past the
clump of firs on the Hawk’s Lvnch, till it died
away on the wild stretches of common beyond.

The ringers bent lustily to their work. There
had been no such ringing in Englehourn since
the end of the great war. Not content with the
usual peal out of church, they came back again
and again in the afternoon, full of the good cheer
M'hich had been provided for them ; and again
and again the wedding peal rang out from the
belfry in honor of their old comrade :

One — more— poor — man — un-done —

One — more— poor— man — un-done.

Such was the ungallant speech which for
many generations had been attributed to the En-
glebourn wedding-bells ; and when you had once
caught the words — as you would be sure to do
from some wide-mouthed grinning hoy lounging
over the church-yard rails to see the wedding
pass — it would be impossible to persuade your-
self that they did, in fact, say any thing else.
Somehow, Harry Winburn bore his undoing in
the most heroic manner, and did his duty
throughout the trying day as a non-commis-
sioned officer and bridegroom should. The
only part of the performance arranged by his
captain which he fairly resisted, w^as the pro-
posed departure of himself and Patty to the sta-
tion in the solitary post-chaise of Englehourn —
a real old yellow — U'ith a pair of horses. East,
after hearing the sergeant’s pleading on the sub-
ject of vehicles, at last allowed them to drive offi
in a tax-cart, taking a small boy with them be-
hind to bring it back.

As for the festivities, they went off without a
hitch, as such affairs will where the leaders of
the revels have their hearts in them. The chil-
dren had all played, and romped, and eaten, and
drunk themselves into a state of torpor by an
early hour of the evening. The farmers’ din-
ner was a decided success. East proposed the
health of the bride and bridegroom, and was
followed by Farmer Grove and the constable.
David turned out in a new blue swallow-tailed
coat, with metal buttons, of his own fabulous
cut, in honor of the occasion. He and the
farmer spoke like the leader of the Government
and the Opposition in the House of Commons
on an address to the Crown. There was not a
pin to choose between their speeches, and n

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

stranger liearing them would naturally have
concluded that Harry had never been any thing
but the model boy and young man of the parish.
Fortunately, the oratorical powers of Englebourn
ended here; and East and the majority of his
guests adjourned to the green, where the cricket
was in progress. Each game lasted a very short
time 6nly, as the youth of Englebourn were not
experts in the noble science, and lost their wick-
ets one after another so fast, that Tom and Hardy
had time to play out two matches with them, and
then to retire on their laurels, while the after-
noon was yet youn^f

The old folk in the village school-room enjoy-
ed their beef and pudding, under the special su-
perintendence of Miss Winter, and then toddled
to their homes, and sat about in the warmest
nooks they could find, mumbling of old times,
and the doings at Dr. Winter’s wedding.

David devoted himself to superintending the
issue of beer, swelling with importance, but so
full of the milk of human kindness from the
great event of the day that nobody minded his
little airs. He did his duty so satisfactorily
that, with the exception of one or two regular
confirmed soakers, who stuck steadily to the tap
of the Red Lion, and there managed successful-
ly to fuddle themselves, there was nothing like
drunkenness. In short, it was one of those rare
days when every thing goes right, and every body
seems to be inclined to give and take, and to
make allowances for their neighbors. By de-
grees the cricket flagged, and most of the men
went oft’ to sit over their pipes, and finish the
evening in their own way. The boys and girls
took to playing at “kissing in the ring;” and
the children who had not already gone home sat
in groups watching them.

Miss Winter had already disappeared, and
Tom, Hardy, and the Captain began to feel that
they might consider their part finished. They
strolled together oft' the green towards Hardy’s
lodgings, the Red Lion being still in the posses-
sion of East’s guests.

“Well, how do you think it all went off?”
asked he.

“Nothing could have been better,” said
Hardy; “and they all seem so inclined to be
reasonable that I don’t think we shall even have
a roaring song along the street to-night when the
Red Lion shuts up.”

“ And you are satisfied, Tom?”

“ I should think so. I have been hoping for
this day any time this four years, and now it
has come, and gone off well too, thanks to you,
Harry.”

“ Thanks to me ? Very good ; I am open to
any amount of gratitude.”

“I think you have every reason to be satis-
fied with your second day’s work at Englebourn,
at any rate.”

“ So I am. I only hope it may turn out as
well as the first.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt about that.”

“I don’t know. I rather believe in the rule
of contraries.”

“ How do you mean ?”

“Why, when you inveigled me over from
Oxford, and we carried off the sergeant from
the authorities, and defeated the yeomanry in
that tremendous thunder-storm, I thought we
were a couple of idiots, and deserved a week
each in the lock-up for our pains. That busi-
ness turned out well. Tliis time we have start-
ed with flying colors and bells ringing, and
so — ”

“This business will turn out better. Why
not ?”

“Then let us manage a third day’s work in
these parts as soon as possible. I should like
to get to the third degree of comparison, and
perhaps the superlative will turn up trumi)S jfor
me somehow. Are there many more young
women in the place as pretty as Mrs. Wiii-
burn ? This marrying complaint is very catch-
ing, I find.”

“There’s my Cousin Katie,” said Tom, look-
ing stealthily at Hardy; “I won’t allow that
there’s any face in the country-side to match
hers. What do you say. Jack?”

Flardy was confused by this sudden appeal. ,
“I haven’t been long enough here to judge,”
he said, yl have always thought Miss Winter
very beautiful. I see it is nearly seven o’clock,
and I have a call or two to make in the village.
I should think you ought to get some rest after
this tiring day. Captain East?”

“ What are you going to do, Tom?”

“Well, I was thinking of just thrqwing a fly
over the mill-tail. There’s such a fine head of
water on.”

“Isn’t it too bright?”

“Well, perhaps it is a little: marrying
weather and fishing weather don’t agree. Only
what else is there to do ? But if you are tired,”
he added, looking at East, “I don’t care a straw
about it. I shall stay with you.”

'“Not a bit of it. I shall hobble down with
you, and lie on the bank and smoke a cheroot.”
“No, you shan’t walk, at any rate. I can
borrow the constable’s pony, old Nibble, the
quietest beast in the world. He’ll stand for a
week if we like, while I fish and you lie and
look on. I’ll be off, and bring him round in
two minutes.”

“Then we shall meet for a clumsy tea at
nine at my lodgings,” said Hardy, as he went
off to his pastoral duties.

Tom and East in due time found themselves
by the side of the stream. There was only a
small piece of fishable water in Englebourn.
The fine stream, which, a mile or so below, in
the Grange grounds, might be called a river,
came into respectable existence only about two
hundred yards above Englebourn Mill. Here
two little chalk brooks met, and former millers
had judiciously deepened the channel, and
dammed the united waters back so as to get a
respectable reservoir. Above the junction the
little weedy, bright, creeping brooks afforded
good sport for small truants groppling about
with their hands, or bobbing with lobworms un-

238

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

der the hollow banks, but were not available
for the scientific angler. The parish ended at
the fence next below the mill garden, on the
other side of which the land was part of the
Grange estate. So there was just the piece of
still water above th'e mill, and the one field be-
low it, over which Tom had leave. On ordi-
nary occasions this would have been enough,
with careful fishing, to last him till dark ; but
his nerves were probably somewhat excited by
the events of the day, and East sat near and
kept talking ; so he got over his water faster
than usual. At any rate, he had arrived for
the second time at the envious fence before the
sun was down. The fish were wondrous wary
in the miller’s bit of water — as might be expect-
ed, for they led a dog of a life there, between the
miller and his men, and their nets, and baits of
all kinds always set. So Tom thought himself
lucky to get a couple of decent fish, the only
ones that were moving within his liberty ; but
he could not help looking with covetous eyes on
the fine stretch of water below, all dimpling with
rises.

. “Why don’t you get over and fish below?”
said East, from his seat on the bank; “don’t
mind me. I can watch you ; besides, lying on
the turf on such an evening is luxury enough
by itself.”

“I can’t go. Both sides below belong to that
fellow Wurley.”

“The sergeant’s amiable landlord and prose-
cutor ?”

“Yes; and the yeoman with whom you ex-
changed shots on the common.”

“Hang it, Tom, just jump over and catch a
brace of his trout. Look how they are rising.”

“No, I don’t know. I never w'as very par-
ticular about poaching, but somehow I shouldn’t
like to do it on his land. I don’t like him well
enough.”

“You’re right, I believe. But just look
there. There’s a whopper rising not more
than ten yai’ds below the rail. You might
reach him, I think, without trespassing, from
where you stand.”

“ Shall I have a shy at him ?”

“Yes; it can’t be poaching if you don’t go
on his grounds.”

Tom could not resist the temptation, and
threw over the rails, which crossed the stream
from hedge to hedge to mark the boundaries of
the parish, until he got well over the place where
the fish was rising.

“There, that was at your fly,” said East, hob-
bling up in great excitement.

‘ ‘ All right, I shall have him directly. There
he is. Hallo ! Harry, I say ! Splash with your
stick. Drive the brute back. Bad luck to him —
look at that !”

The fish, when hooked, had come straight up
stream towards his captor, and, notwithstanding
East’s attempts to frighten him back, had rushed
in under the before-mentioned rails, which were
adorned with jagged nails, to make crossing on
them unpleasant for the Englebourn boys. |

Against one of these Tom's line severed, and
the waters closed over two beauteous flies, and
some six feet of lovely taper gut.

East laughed loud and merrily; and Tom,
crestfallen as he was, was delighted to hear the
old ring coming back into his friend’s voice.

“ Harry, old fellow, you’re picking up already
in this glorious air.” ' •

“ Of course I am. Two or three more wed-
dings and fishings will set me up altogether.
How could you be so green as to throw over
those rails ? It’s a proper lesson to you, Tom,
for poaching.”

“Well, that’s cool. Didn’t I throw down
stream to please you?”

“You ought to have resisted temptation.
But, I say, what are you at?”

“Putting on another cast, of course.”

“ Wh}', you’re not going on to Wurley's
land ?”

“No; I suppose not. I must try the mill-
tail again.”

“It’s no good. You’ve tried it over twice,
and I’m getting bored.”

“Well, what shall we do then?”

“I’ve a mind to get up to the hill there to
see the sun set — what’s its name? — where I
waited with the cavalry that night, you know.”
“Oh! the Hawk’s Lynch. Come along,
then ; I’m your man.”

So Tom put up his rod and caught the old
pony, and the two friends were soon on their
way towards the common, through lanes at the
back of the village.

The wind had sunk to sleep as the shadows
lengthened. There was no sound abroad ex-
cept that of Nibble’s hoofs on the turf — not even
the hum of insects ; for the few persevering
gnats, w'ho were still dancing about in the slant-
ing glints of sunshine that struck here and there
across the lanes, had left off humming. Noth-
ing living met them, except an occasional stag-
beetle, steering clumsily dowm the lane, and
seeming, like a heavy coaster, to have as much
to do as he could fairly manage in keeping clear
of them. They walked on in silence for some
time, which w’as broken at last by East.

“ I haven’t had time to tell you about my fu-
ture prospects.”

“ How do you mean ? Has any thing hap-
pened?”

“ Yes. I got a letter two days ago from New
Zealand, where I find I am a considerable land-
owner. A cousin of mine has died out there
and left me his property.”

“Well, you’re not going to leave England,
surely ?”

“Yes, I am. The doctors say the voyage
will do me good, and the climate is just the one
to suit me. What’s the good of my staying
here ? I shan’t be fit for service again for years.
I shall go on half-pay, and become an enterpris-
ing agriculturist at the Antipodes. I have
spoken to the sergeant, and arranged that he
and his wife shall go with me ; so, as soon as I
I can get his discharge, and he has done honey-

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

239

mooning, we shall start. I wish you would
come with us.”

Tom could scarcely believe his ears ; but soon
found that East was in earnest, and had an an-
swer to all his remonstrances. Indeed, he had
very. little to say against the plan, for it jumped
with his own humor ; and he could not help ad-
mitting that, under the circumstances, it was a
wise one, and that, with Harry Winburn for his
head man. East couldn’t do better than carry it
out.

“I knew you would soon come round to it,”
said the Captain ; “ what could I do dawdling
about at home, with just enough money to keep
me and get me into mischief? There I shall
have a position and an object ; and one may be
of some use, and make one’s mark in a new
country. And we’ll get a snug berth ready for
you by the time you’re starved out of the old
country. England isn’t the place for poor men
with any go in them.”

“ I believe you’re right, Harry,” said Tom,
mournfully.

“I know I am. And in a few years, when
we’ve made our fortunes, we’ll come back and
have a look at the old country, and perhaps buy
up half Englebourn, and lay our bones in the
old church-yard.”

“ And if we don’t make our fortunes?”

“Then we’ll stay out there.”

“Well, if I were my own master I think I
should make one with you. But I could never
leave my father and mother, or — or — ”

“ Oh, I understand. Of course, if matters
go all right in that quarter, I have nothing more
to say. But, fi'ora what you have told me, I
thought you might be glad of a regular break in
your life, and a new start in a new world.”

“Very likely I may. I should have said so
myself this morning. But somehow I feel to-
night more hopeful than I have for years.”

“ Those wedding-chimes are running in your
head.”

“Yes; and they have lifted a load off my
heart too. Four years ago I was very near do-
ing the greatest wrong a man can do to that
girl who was married to-day, and to that fine
fellow, her husband, who was the first friend I
ever had. Ever since then I have been doing
my best to set matters straight, and have often
made them erookeder. But to-day they are all
straight, thank God, and I feel as if a chain
were broken from oif my neck. All has come
right for them, and perhaps my own turn will
come before long.”

“To be sure it will. I must be introduced
to a certain young lady before we start. I shall
tell her that I don’t mean to give up hopes of
seeing her on the other side of the world.”

“Well, here we are on the common. What
a glorious sunset ! Come, stir up. Nibble. We
shall be on the Lynch just in time to see him
dip, if we push on.”

Nibble, that ancient pony, finding that there
was no help for it, scrambled up the greater
part of the ascent successfully. But his wheez-

ings and roarings during the operation excited
East’s pity. So he dismounted when they came
to the foot of the Hawk's Lynch, and, tying
Nibble's bridle to a furze-bush — a most unnec-
essary precaution — set to work to scale the last
and steepest bit of the ascent with the help of
his stick and Tom’s strong arm.

They paused every ten paces or so to rest and
look at the sunset. The broad vale belo\v lay
in purple shadow ; the soft flocks of little clouds
high up over their heads, and stretching away
to the eastern horizon, floated in a sea of rosy
light ; and the stems of the Scotch firs stood out
like columns of ruddy flame.

“Why, this beats India,” said East, putting
up his hand to shade his eyes, which were fairly
dazzled by the blaze. “ What a contrast to the
last time I was up here! Do you remember
that awful black-blue sky ?”

“Don’t I? Like a nightmare. Hallo!
who’s here ?”

“ Why, if it isn’t the parson’ and Miss Win-
ter !” said East, smiling.

True enough, there they were, standing to-
gether on the very verge of the mound, beyond
the firs, some ten yards in front of the last-
comers, looking out into the sunset.

“I say, Tom, another good omen,” whispered
East ; “ hadn’t we better beat a retreat ?”
Before Tom could answer, or make up his
mind what to do. Hardy turned his head and
caught sight of them, and then Katie turned
too, blushing like the little clouds overhead. It
M'^as an embarrassing moment. Tom stammer-
ed out that they had come up quite by chance,
and then set to work, well seconded by East, to
look desperately unconscious, and to expatiate
on the beauties of the view. The light began
to fade, and the little clouds to change again
from soft pink to gray, and the evening star
shone out clear as they turned to descend the
hill, when the Englebourn clock chimed nine.

Katie attached herself to Tom, while Hardy
helped the Captain down the steep pitch, and
on to the back of Nibble. They went a little
ahead. Tom was longing to speak to his cous-
in, but could not tell how to begin. At last
Katie broke silence :

“ I am so vexed that this should have hap-
pened!”

“Are you, dear? So am not I,” he said,
pressing her arm to his side.

“ But I mean, it seems so forward — as if I
had met Mr. Hardy here on purpose. What
will your friend think of me ?”

“ He will think no evil.”

“But indeed, Tom, do tell him, pray. It was
quite an accident. You know how I and Mary
used to go up the Hawk’s Lynch, whenever we
could, on fine evenings.”

“Yes, dear, I know it well.”

“ And I thought of you both so much to-
day, that I couldn’t help coming up here.”
“And you found Hardy ? I don’t wonder.
I should come up to see the sun set every night,
if I lived at Englebourn.”

240

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

“No; he came up some time after me,
straight up the hill. I did not see him till he
was quite close. I could not run away then.
Indeed, it was not five minutes before you
came.”

“Five minutes are as good as a year some-
times.”

“ And you will tell your friend, Tom, how it
happened?”

“ Indeed I will, Katie. May I not tell him
something more ?”

He looked round for an answer, and there
Avas just light enough to read it in her eye.

“My debt is deepening to the Hawk’s Lynch,”
he said, as they walked on through the twilight.
“Blessed five minutes! Whatever else they
may take with them, they will carry my thanks
forever. Look how clear and steady tlie light
of that star is, just over the church tower. I
Avonder Avhether Mary is at a great hot dinner.
Shall you write to her soon ?”

“ Oh yes; to-night.”

“You may tell her that there is no better
Englishman Aval king the earth than my friend,
John Hardy. Here Ave are at his lodgings.
East and I are going to tea AA'ith him. Wish
them good-night, and I will see you home,”

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE BEGINNING OP THE END.

From the Englebouni festivities Tom and
East returned to London. The Captain Avas
bent on starting for his possessions in the South
Pacific ; and, as he regained strength, energized
over all his preparations, and Avent about in cabs
purchasing agricultural implements, sometimes
by the light of nature, and sometimes under the
guidance of Harry Winburn. He invested also
in something of a library, and in large quan-
tities of saddlery ; in short, packages of all kinds
began to increase and multiply upon him. Then
there Avas the selecting a vessel, and all the
negotiations with the ship’s husband as to terms,
and the business of getting introduced to, and
conferring Avith, people from the colony, or who
Avere supposed to know something about it.
Altogether East had plenty of Avork on his hands ;
and the more he had to do, the better and more
cheery he became.

Tom, on the contrary, Avas rather loAver than
usual. His half-formed hopes that some good
luck Avas going to happen to him after Patty’s
marriage Avere beginning to groAV faint, and the
contrast of his friend’s definite present purpose
in life Avith his own uncertainty made him more
or less melancholy, in spite of all his efforts.
His father had offered him a tour abroad, noAV
that he had finished Avith Oxford, urging that he
seemed to Avant a change to freshen him up be-
fore buckling to a profession, and that he Avould
never, in all likelihood, haAm such another
chance. But he could not make up his mind
to accept the offer. The attr.nction to London

was too strong for him ; and, though he saAv
little hope of any thing happening to improA’e
his prospects, he could not keep away from it.
He spent most of his time, when not Avith East,
in haunting the neighborhood of Mr. Porter’s
house in Belgravia, and the places Avhere hfwas
likely to catch distant glimpses of Mary, avoid-
ing all chance of actual meeting or recognition,
from Avhich he shrank in his present frame of
mind.

The nearest approach to the flame which he
allowed himself was a renewal of his old friend-
ship with Grey, who Avas still Avorking on in his
Westminster rookery. He had become a great
favorite with Mrs. Porter, who was always try-
ing to get him to her house to feed him proper-
ly, and Avas much astonished, and sometimes al-
most provoked, at the small success of her hos-
pitable endeavors. Grey Avas so taken up with
his OAvn pursuits that it did not occur to him to
be surprised that he nevmr met Tom at the house
of his relations. He Avas innoeent of all knoAvl-
edge or suspicion of the real state of things, so
that Tom could talk to him with perfect Lee-
dom about his uncle’s household, picking up all
such scraps of information as Grey possessed
without compromising himself or feeling shy.

Thus the tAvo old school-felloAvs lived on to-
gether after their return from Englebouni, in
a set of chambers in the Temple, Avhich one of
Tom’s college friends (avIio had been beguiled
from the perusal of Stephen’s Commentaries and
aspirations after the Avoolsack, by the offer of
a place on board a yacht and a cruise to Nor-
Avay) had fortunately lent him.

We join company Avith our hero again on a
fine July morning. Readers will begin to think
that, at any rate, he is always blessed Avith fine
Aveather, Avhatever troubles he may have to en-
dure ; but, if we are not to have fine weather
in novels, when and Avhere are Ave to have it ?
It Aims a fine July morning, then, and the streets
were already beginning to feel sultry as he
worked his Avay AvestAvard. Grey, Avho had nev-
er gBen up hopes of bringing Tom round to his
own vioAvs, had not neglected the opportunities
Avhich his residence in tOAvn offered, and had
enlisted Tom’s services on more than one occa-
sion. He had found him specially useful in
instructing the big boys, Avhom he Avas trying to
bring together and civilize in a “Young Men’s
Club,” in the rudiments of cricket on Saturday
evenings. But on the morning in question an
altogether different Avork Avas on hand.

A lady Imng some eight or nine miles to the
north-Avest of London, Avho took great interest
in Grey’s doings, had asked him to bring the
children of his night-school doAvn to spend a
day in her grounds, and this Avas the happy oc-
casion. It Avas before the days of cheap ex-
cursions by rail, so that vans had to be found
for the party ; and Grey had discovered a be-
nevolent remover of furniture in Paddington,
Avho Avas ready to take them at a reasonable
figure. The tAvo Amns, with awnings and cur-
tains in the height of fashion, and horses Avith

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED,

!41

tassellecl car-caps, and every thing handsome
about them, were already drawn up in the
midst of a group of excited children, and scarcely
less excited mothers, when Tom arrived. Grey
was arranging his forces, and laboring to reduce
the Irish children, who formed almost half of
his ragged little flock, into something like order
before starting. By degrees this was managed,
and Tom was placed in command of the rear
A'an, while Grey reserved the leading one to
himself. The children were divided, and warn-
ed not to lean over the sides and tumble out — a
somewhat superfluous caution, as most of them,
though unused to riding in any legitimate man-
ner, were pretty well used to balancing them-
selves behind any vehicle which offered as much
as a spike to sit on out of siglit of the driver.
Then came the rush into the vans. Grey and
Tom took up their places next the doors as
conductors, and the procession lumbered off
Avith great success, and much shouting from
treble voices.

Tom soon found that he had plenty of work
on his hands to keep the peace among his flock.
The Irish element was in a state of wild effer-
vescence, and he had to draft them down to his
own end, leaving the foremost part of the van
to the soberer English children. He was much
struck by the contrast of the whole set to the
Englebourn school children, whom he had late-
ly seen under somewhat similar circumstances.
The difficulty with them had been to draAV them
out, and put any thing like life into them ;
here all he had to do was to repress the super-
abundant life. However, the vans held on their
way, and got safely into the suburbs, and so at
last to an occasional hedge, and a suspicion of
trees and green fields beyond.

It became more and more dififcult now to
keep the boys in ; and Avhen they came to a hill,
where the horses had to walk, he yielded to
their entreaties, and opening the door, let them
out, insisting only that the girls should remain
seated. They scattered over the sides of the
roads and up the banks ; now chasing pigs and
fowls up to the very doors of their owners ; now
gathering the commonest road-side weeds, and
running up to show them to him and ask their
names, as if they were rare treasures. The ig-
norance of most of the children as to the com-
monest country matters astonished him. One
small boy particularly came back time after
time to ask him, with solemn face, “Please,
sir, is this the country?” and when at last he
allowed that it was, rejoined, “Then, please,
where are the nuts ?”

The clothing of most of the Irish boys began to
tumble to pieces in an alarming manner. Grey
had insisted on their being made tidy for the oc-
casion, but the tidiness Avas of a superficial kind.
The hasty stitching soon began to gAe Avay, and
they Avere rushing about Avith Avild locks ; the
strips of Avhat once might have been nether gar-
ments hanging about their legs ; their feet and
heads bare, the shoes Avhich their mothers had
borrowed for the state occasion having been de-
IG

posited under the scat of the van. So, when
the procession arrived at the trim lodge-gates
of their hostess, and his charge descended and
fell in on the beautifully eli])ped turf at the side
of the drive, Tom felt some of the sensations
of Ealstaff Avlicn he had to lead his ragged regi-
ment through Coventry streets.

He Avas soon at his case again, and enjoyed
the day thoroughly, and the drive home ; but,
as they drew near toAvn again, a sense of dis-
comfort and shyness came oA’cr him, and he
Avished the journey to Westminster avcII over,
and hoped that the carman Avould haA'c the
sense to go through the quiet parts of the toAvn.

He Avas much disconcerted, consequently,
when the vans came to a sudden stop, opposite
one of the Park entrances, in the BaysAvater
Eoad. “What in the Avorld is Grey about?”
he thought, as he saAV him get out, and all the
children after him. So he got out himself, and
Avent forward to get an explanation.

“Oh, I haA'e told the man that he need not
driA'e us I’ound to Westminster. He is close at
home here, and his horses have had a hard day ;
so Ave can just get out and AAmlk home.”

“ What ! across the Park ?” asked Tom.

“ Yes, it will amuse the children, you knoAA'.”

“But they’re tired,” persisted Tom ; “ come
noAv, it’s all nonsense letting the felloAv off ; he’s
bound to take us back.”

“ I’m afraid I have promised him,” said
Grey • “ besides, the children all think it a treat.
Don’t you all Avant to Avalk across the Park ?”
he AA'ent on, turning to them, and a general af-
firmative chorus Avas the ansAA'er. So Tom had
nothing for it but to shrug his shoulders, empty
his own A'an, and folloAV into the Park Avith his
convoy, not in the best humor Avith Grey for
having arranged this ending to their excursion.

They might haA'e got over a third of the dis-
tance betAveen the BaysAvater Eoad and the Ser-
pentine, Avhen he Avas aAvare of a small thin voice
addressing him.

“Oh, please, Avon’tyou carry me a bit? I’m
so tired!” said the voice. He. turned in some
trepidation to look for the speaker, and found
her to be a sickly undergroAvn little girl of ten
or thereabouts, Avith large pleading gray eyes,
very shabbily dressed, and a little lame. He had
remarked her several times in the course of the
day, not for any beauty or grace about her, for
the poor child had none, but for her transparent
confidence and trustfulness. After dinner, as
they had been all sitting on the grass under the
shade of a great elm to hear Grey read a story,
and Tom had been sitting a little apart from the
rest Avith his back against the trunk, she had
come up and sat quietly doAvn by him, leaning
on his knee. Then he had seen her go up and
take the hand of tlie lady Avho had entertained
them, and Avalk along by her, talking Avithout
the least shyness. Soon aftevAvards she had
squeezed into the swing by the side of the beau-
tifully-dressed little daughter of the .same ladA-,
Avho, after looking for a minute at her shabby
little sister Avith large round eyes, had jumped

242

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

out and run off to her mother, evidently in a
state of childish bewilderment as to whether it
was not wicked for a child to wear such dirty
old clothes.

Tom had chuckled to himself as ho saw .Cin-
derella settling herself comfortably in the swing
in the jdace of the ousted princess, and had taken
a fancy to the child, speculating to himself as to
how she could have been brought up, to be so ut-
terly unconscious of differences of rank and dress.
“ She seems really to treat her fellow'-creatures as
if she had been studying the ‘Sartor Resartus,’ ”
he thought. “ She has cut down through all
clothes-philosophy without knowing it. I won-
der, if she had a chance, whether she would go
and sit down in the Queen’s lap ?”

He did not at the time anticipate that she
would put his own clothes-philosophy to so se-
vere a test before the day was over. The child
had been as merry and active as any of the rest
during the earlier part of the day ; but now as
he looked down in answer to her reiterated plea,
“ Won’t you carry me a bit? I’m so tired !”
he saw that she could scarcely drag one foot
after another.

What was to be done? He was already
keenly alive to the discomfort of walking across
Hyde Park in a procession of ragged children,
with such a figure of fun as Grey at their head,
looking, in his long, rusty, straight-cut black
coat, as if he had come fresh out of Noah’s ark.
He didn’t care about it so much while they were
on the turf, in the out-of-the-way parts, and
would meet nobody but guards, and nurse-
maids, and trades-people, and mechanics out for
an evening’s stroll. But the Drive and Rotten
Row lay befoi’e them, and must be crossed. It
was just the most crowded time of the day. He
had almost made up his mind one or twice to
stop Grey and the procession, and propose to sit
down for half an hour or so and let the children
play, by which time the world would be going
home to dinner. But there was no play left in
the children ; and he had resisted the tempta-
tion, meaning, when they came to the most
crowded part, to look unconscious, as if it were
by chance that he had got into such company,
and had in fact nothing to do with them. But
now, if he listened to the child’s plea, and car-
ried her, all hope of concealment was over. If
he did not, he felt that there would be no great-
er flunkey in the Park that evening than Thomas
Brown, the enlightened radical and philosopher,
among the young gentlemen riders in Rotten
Row, or the powdered footmen lounging behind
the great blaring carriages in the Drive.

So he looked down at the child once or twice
in a state of puzzle. A third time she looked
up with her great eyes, and said, “ Oh, please
carry me a bit !” and her piteous tired face
turned the scale. “ If she were Lady Mary or
Lady Blanche,” thought he, “ I should pick her
up at once, and be proud of the burden. Here
goes!” And he took her up in his arms, and
walked on, desperate and reckless.

Notwithstanding all his philosophy, he felt

his ears tingling and his face getting red as they
approached the Drive. It was crowded. They
were kept standing a minute or two at the
crossing. He made a desperate effort to ab-
stract himself wholly from the visible world, and
retire into a state of serene contemplation. But
it would not do ; and he was painfully conscious
of the stare of lack-lustre eyes of well-dressed
men leaning over the rails, and the amused look
of delicate ladies, lounging in open carriages,
and surveying him and Grey and their ragged
rout through glasses.

At last they scrambled across, and he breathed
freely for a minute as they struggled along the
comparatively quiet path leading to Albert Gate
and stopped to drink at the fountain. Then
came Rotten Row, and another pause among the
loungers, and a plunge into the Ride, where he
W'as nearly run down by two men whom he
had known at Oxford. They shouted to him
to get out of the w'ay ; and he felt the hot defi-
ant blood rushing through his veins, as he strode
across without heeding. They passed on, one
of them having to pull his horse out of his stride
to avoid him. Did they recognize him ? He
felt a strange mixture of utter indifference, and
longing to strangle them.

The worst was now over ; besides, he was
getting used to the situation, and his good sense
was beginning to rally. So he marched through
Albert Gate, carrying his ragged little charge,
who prattled away to him without a pause, and
surrounded by the rest of the children, scarcely
caring who might see him.

They won safely through the omnibuses and
carriages on the Kensington Road, and so into
Belgravia. At last he was quite at his ease
again, and began listening to what the child was
saying to him, and was strolliug carelessly along,
when once more, at one of the crossings, he was
startled by a shout from some riders.. There
was straw laid down in the street, so that he had
not heard them as they cantered round the cor-
ner, hurrying home to dress for dinner; and
they were all but upon him, and had to rein up
their horses sharply.

The party consisted of a lady and two gentle-
men, one old, the other young ; the latter dress-
ed in the height of fashion, and with the super-
cilious air w'hich Tom hated from his soul.
The shout came from the young man, and drew
Tom’s attention to him first. All ■ the devil
rushed up as he recognized St. Cloud. The
lady’s horse swerved against his, and began to
rear. He put his hand on its bridle, as if he
had a right to protect her. Another glance
told Tom that the lady was Mary, and the old
gentleman, fussing up on his stout cob on the
other side of her, Mr. Porter.

They all knew him in another moment. He
stared from one to the other, wms conscious that
she turned her horse’s head sharply, so as to
disengage the bridle from St. Cloud’s hand, and
of his insolent stare, and of the embarrassment
of Mr. Porter ; and then, setting his face straight
before him he passed on in a bewildered dream.

TOM BEOWN AT OXFORD.

243

never looking back till they -were out of sight.
The dream gave way to bitter and wild thoughts
upon which it will do none of us any good to
dwell. He put down the little girl outside the
schools, turning abruptly from the mother, a
poor widow in scant, well - preserved black
clothes, who was waiting for the child, and be-
gan thanking' him for his care of her; refused
Grey’s pressing invitation to tea, and set his face
eastward. Bitterer and more wild and more
scornful grew his thoughts as he strode along
past the Abbey, and up Whitehall, and away
down the Strand, holding on over the crossings
without paying the slightest heed to vehicle, or
horse, or man. Incensed coachmen had to pull
up with a jerk to avoid running over him, and
more than one sturdy walker turned round in
indignation at a collision which they felt had
been intended, or at least which there had been
no effort to avoid.

As he passed under the window of the Ban-
queting Hall, and by the place in Charing-cross
where the pillory used to stand, he growled to
himself what a pity it was that the times for cut-
ting off heads and cropping ears had gone by.
The whole of the dense population from either
side of the Strand seemed to have crowded out
into that thoroughfare to impede his march and
aggravate him. The farther eastward he got
the thicker got the crowd; and the vans, the
omnibuses, the cabs, seemed to multiply and get
noisier. Not an altogether pleasant sight to a
man in the most Christian frame of mind is the
crowd that a fine summer evening fetches out
into the roaring Strand, as the sun fetches out
flies oh the window of a village grocery. To
him just then it was at once depressing and pro-
voking, and he went shouldering his way towards
Temple Bar as thoroughly out of tune as he had
been for many a long day.

As he passed from the narrowest part of the
Strand into the space round St. Clement Danes’
church, he was startled, in a momentary lull of
the uproar, by the sound of chiming bells. He
slackened his pace to listen ; but a huge van
lumbered by, shaking the houses on both sides,
and drowning all sounds but its own rattle ; and
then he found himself suddenly immersed in a
crowd, vociferating and gesticulating round a
policeman, w'ho was conveying a woman to-
wards the station-house. He shouldered through
it — another lull came, and with it the same slow,
gentle, calm cadence of chiming bells. Again
and again he*caught it as he passed on to Tem-
ple Bar ; 'whenever the roar subsided the notes
of the old hymn tune came dropping down on
him like balm from the air. If the ancient ben-
efactor who caused the bells of St. Clement
Danes’ church to be arranged to play that chime
so many times a day is allowed to hover round
the steeple at such times, to watch the effect of
his benefaction on posterity, he must have been
well satisfied on that evening. Tom passed un-
der the Bar, and turned into the Temple anoth-
er man, softened again, and in his right mind.

“There’s always a voice saying the right

thing to you somewhere, if you’ll only listen for
it,” he thought. He took a few turns in the
court to clear his head, and then went up, and
found Harry East reclining on a sofa, in full
view of the gardens and river, solacing himself
with his accustomed cheroot.

“ Oh, here you .are,” he said, making room on
the sofa; “how did it go off’?”

“Well enough. Where h.ave you been ?’’
“In the city and at the Docks. I’ve been
all over our vessel. She’s a real clipper.”

“ When do you sail ?”

“Not quite certain. I should say in a fort-
night, though.” East puff’ed away for a min-
ute, and then, as Tom said nothing, went on.
“I’m not so sweet on it as the time draws near.
There are more of my chums turning up every
day from India at the Rag. And this is un-
commonly pleasant, too, living with you here in
chambers. You may think it odd, but I don’t
half like getting rid of you.” [

“Thanks ; but I don’t think you will get rid
of me.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that I shall go with you, if my peo-
ple will let me and you will take me.”

“ W-h-e-w ! Any thing happened ?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“ Yes.”

“Well, go on. Don’t keep a fellow in sus-
pense. I shall be introduced, and eat one of
the old boy’s good dinners, after all, before I
sail.”

Tom looked out of window, and found some
difficulty in getting out the words, “No, it’s all
up.”

“You don’t mean it?” said East, coming to
a sitting position by Tom’s side. “But how
do you know ? . Are you sure ? What did she
say?”

“Nothing. I haven’t spoken to her; but
it’s all up. She was riding with her father and
the fellow to whom she’s engaged. I have heard
it a dozen times, but never would believe it.”
“But is that all? Riding with her father
and another man ! Why there’s nothing in
that.”

‘ ‘ Yes, but there is though. You should have
seen his look. And they all knew me well
enough, but not one of them nodded even.”
“Well, there’s not much in that, after all.
It may have been chance, or you may have fan-
cied it.”

“No, one isn’t quite such a fool. However,
I have no right to complain, and I won’t. I
could bear it all well enough if he were not such
a cold-hearted blackguard.”

“What, this fellow she was riding with ?”
“Yes. He hasn’t a heart the size of a pin’s
head. He’ll break her’s. He’s a mean brute,
too. She can’t know him, though he has been
after her this year and more. They must have
forced her into it. Ah! it’s a bitter business,”
and he put his head between his hands, and East
heard the deep catches of his laboring breath as

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

244

he sat by hiin, feeling deeply for him, but puz-
zled what to say.

“ She can’t be worth so much, after all, Tom,”
he said at last, “if she would have such a fel-
low as that. Depend upon it, she’s not what
you thought her.”

Tom made no answer ; so the Captain went
on presently, thinking he had hit the right note.

‘ ‘ Cheer up, old boy. There’s as good fish in
the sea yet as ever came out of it. Don’t you
remember the song — whose is it ? Lovelace’s :

‘If she he uot fair for me,

What care I for whom she be ?’ ”

Tom started up almost fiercely, but recover-
ed himself in a moment, and then leaned his
head down again.

“Don’t talk about her, Harry; you don’t
know her,” he said.

“ And don’t want to know her, Tom, if she
is going to throw you over. Well, I shall
leave you for an hour or so. Come up to me
presently at the Rag, when you feel better.”

East started for his club, debating within
himself what he could do for his friend — wheth-
er calling out the party mightn’t do good.

Tom, left to himself, broke down at first sad-
ly ; but, as the evening wore on he began to
rally, and sat down and wrote a long letter to
his father, making a clean breast, and asking
his permission to go with East.

CHAPTER XLIX.

THE END.

“ My dear Katie, — I know you will be very
much pained when you read this letter. You
two have been my only confidantes, and you
liave always kept me up, and encouraged me to
hope that all would come right. And after all
that happened last week, Patty’s marriage and
your engagement — the two things upon earth,
with one exception, that I most wished for — I
quite felt that my own turn was coming. I
can’t tell why I had such a strong feeling about
it, but somehow all the most important changes
in my life for the last four years have been so
interwoven with Patty and Harry Winburn’s
history, that, now they tvere married, I was
sure something would happen to me as soon as
I came to London. And I w'as not wrong.
Dear Katie, I can hardly bring m)^self to write
it. It is all over. I met her in the street to-
day ; she W'as riding Avith her father and the
man I told you about. They had to pull up
not to ride over me ; so I had a good look at
her, and there can be no mistake about it. I
have often tried to reason myself into the belief
that the evil day must come sooner or later,
and to prepai’e myself for it ; but I might have
spared myself, for it could not have been worse
than it is if I had ne\'er anticipated it. My fu-
ture is all a blank now. I can’t stay in Eng-
land ; so I have written home to ask them to let

me go to New Zealand with East, and I am sure
they will consent Avhen they knoAv all.

‘ ‘ I shall Avait in toAvn till I get the ansAver.
Perhaps I may be able to get off with East in a
feAv weeks. The sooner the better ; but, of
course, I shall not go without seeing yon and
dear old Jack. You mustn’t mind me calling
him Jack. The only thing that it gives me
any pleasure to think about is your engagement.
It is so right ; and one Avants to see something
going right, some one getting their, due, to keep
alive one’s belief in justice being done somehow
or another in the Avorld. And I do see it, and
acknoAvledge it, Avhen I think over his history
and mine since Ave first met. "VVe have both
got our due ; and you have got yours, Katie,
for you have got the best felloAV in England.

“Ah ! if I only could think that she has got
hers ! If I could only believe that the man she
has chosen is Avorthy of her! I Avill try hard
to think better of him. There must be more
good in him than I have ev'er seen, or she would
never harm engaged herself to him. But I can’t
bear to stop here, and see it all going on. The
sooner I am out of England the better. I send
you a parcel Avith this ; it contains her notes,
and some old flowers, and other matters Avhich
I haven’t the heart to burn. You Avill be the
best judge Avhat should be done with them. If
you see your way to managing it, I should like
her to knoAv that I had sent them all to you,
and that, Avhatever may happen to me hereaf-
ter, my love for her has been the main stay and
the guiding-star of my life ever since that hap-
py time Avhen you all came to stay with us in
my fii'st long A'acation. It found me eaten up
with selfishness and conceit, the puppet of my
OAvn lusts and vanities, and has left me — Well,
never mind what it has left me. At any rate,
if I have not gone from Avorse to w'orse, it is all
OAving to her ; and she ought to knoAV it. It
can not be wrong to let her know Avhat good
she has scattered unknowingly about her path.
May God bless and rcAvard her for it, and you,
too, dear cousin, for all your long loA'e and kind-
ness to one who is very unAvorthy of, but A'ery
thankful for, them.

“Ea'CI' yours, affectionately, T. B.”

The above letter, and that to his father ask-
in,g for leave to emigrate, having been Avritten
and sent off, Tom Avas left, on the afternoon
of the day folloAving his upset, making manful,
if not very successful, efforts to shake off the
load of depression Avhich weighed on him, and
to turn his thoughts resolutely forward to a new-
life in a new country. East Avas aAvay at the
Docks. There Avas no one moving in the Tem-
ple. The men w'ho had business Avere all at
Westminster, or out of sight and hearing in the
recesses of their chambers. Those Avho had
none Avere for the most part aivay enjoying
themselves, in one Avay or another, among the
mighty Avhirl of the mighty human sea of Lon-
don. There Avas nothing left for him to do ;
he had Avritten the only tAvo letters he had to

TOM BROWN

write, and had only to sit still and wait for the
answers, killing the mean time as well as he
could. Reading came hard to him, but it was
the best thing to do, perhaps ; at any rate, he
was trying it on, though his studies were con-
stantly interrupted by long fits of absence of
mind, during which, though his body remained
in the Temple, he was again in the well-kept
garden of Barton, or in the hazel-wood under
the lee of the Berkshire hills.

He was aroused out of one of these reveries,
and brought back to external life and Fig-tree
Court, by a single knock at the outer door, and
a shout of the newsman’s boy for the paper.
So he got up, found the paper, which he had
forgotten to read, and, as he went to the door,
cast his eye on it, and saw that a great match
was going on at Lord’s. This gave a new turn
to his thoughts. He stood looking down stairs
after the boy, considering whether he should not
start at once for the match.

He would be sure to see a lot of acquaintance
there, at any rate. But the idea of seeing and
having to talk to mere acquaintance was more
distasteful than his present solitude. He was
turning to bury himself again in his hole, when
he saw a white dog walk quietly up seven or
eight stairs at the bottom of the flight, and then
turn round and look for some one to follow.

“How odd!” thought Tom, as he watched
him ; “ as like as two peas. It can’t be. No.
Why, yes it is.” And then he whistled, and
called “ Jack,” and the dog looked up and
wagged his tail, as much as to say, “ All right,
I’m coming directly ; but I must wait for my mas-
ter.” The next moment Drysdale appeared at
the bottom of the stairs, and looking up, said :

“ Oh! that’s you, is it? I’m all right, then.
So you knew the old dog ?”

“I should rather think so,” said Tom. “I
hope I never forget a dog or a horse I have once
known.”

In the short minute which Drysdale and Jack
took to arrive at his landing, Tom had time for
a rush of old college memories, in which grave
atid gay, pleasant and bitter, were strangely
mingled. The night when he had been first
brought to his senses about Patty came up very
vividly before him, and the Commemoration
days, when he had last seen Drysdale. “ How
strange!” he thought, “is my old life coming
back again just now? Here, on the very day
after it is all over, comes back the man with
whom I was so intimate up to the day it began,
and have never seen since. What does it
mean ?”

There was a little touch of embarrassment in
the manner of both of them as they shook hands
at the top of the stairs and turned into the
chambers. Tom motioned to Jack to take his
old place at one end of the sofa, and began ca-
ressing him there, the dog showing unmistakably,
by gesture and whine, that delight at renewing
an old friendship for which his race are so nobly
distinguished. Drysdale threw himself down
in an arm-chair and watched them.

AT OXFORD. 245

“ So you knew the old dog. Brown ?” he re-
peated.

“Knew him? of course I did. Dear old
Jack! How well he wears; he istscarcely al-
tered at all.”

“ Very little ; only steadier. More than I
can say for his master. I’m very glad you
knew Jack.”

“ Come, Drysdale, take the other end of the
sofa, or it won’t look like old times. There,
now I can fancy myself back at St. Ambrose’s.”
“By Jove! Brown, you’re a real good fel-
low. I always said so, even after that last let-
ter. You pitched it rather too strong in that,
though. I was very near coming back from
Norway to quarrel with you.”

“ Well, I was very angry at being left in the
lurch by you and Blake.”

“ You got the coin all right, I suppose ? You
never acknowledged it.”

“Didn’t I? Then I ought to have. Yes,
I got it all right about six months afterwards.
I ought to have acknowledged it, and I thouglit
I had. I’m sorry I didn’t. Now we’re all
quits, and won’t talk any more about that ras-
cally bill.”

“I suppose I may light up,” said Drysdale,
dropping into his old lounging attitude on the
sofa and pulling out his cigar-case.

“ Yes, of course. Will you have any thing ?”
“ A cool drink wouldn’t be amiss.”

“They make a nice tankard with cider and a
lump of ice at the Rainbow. What do you say
to that?”

“It sounds touching,” said Drysdale. So
Tom posted olf to Fleet Street to order the liq-
uor, and came back followed by a waiter with
the tankard. Drysdale took a long pull, and
smacked his lips.

“That’s a wrinkle,” he said, handing the
tankard to Tom. “ I suppose the lawyers teach
all the publicans about here a trick or two.
Why, one can fancy one’s self back in the old
quad, looking out on this court If it weren’t
such an outlandish out-of-the-way place, I think
I should take some chambers here myself.
How did you get here?”

“ Oh, they belong to a friend of mine who is
away. But how did you get here ?”

“ Why, along the Strand in a Hansom.”

“I mean, how did you know I was here?”

“ Grey told me,”

“What! Grey who was at St. Ambrose’s
with us?”

“Yes. You look puzzled.”

“ 1* didn’t think you knew Grey.”

“No more I do. But a stout old party I
met last night — your godfather, I should think
he is — told me where he was, and said I should
get your address from him. So I looked him
up this morning, in that dog-hole in Westmin-
ster where he lives. He didn’t know Jack from
Adam.”

“But what in the world do you mean by my
godfather?”

“I had better tell my story from the begin-

24G

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

ning, I see. Last night I did what I don’t oft-
en do — went out to a great drum. There was
an awful crush, of course, and you may guess
what the lieat was in these dog-days, with gas-
lights and wax-lights going, and a jam of peo-
ple in every corner. I was fool enough to get
into the rooms, so that my retreat was cut off ;
and I had to work right through, and got at last
into a back room, which was not so full. The
window was in a recess, and there was a bal-
cony outside, looking over a little bit of garden.
I got into the balcony, talking with a girl who
was sensible enough to like the cool. Present-
ly I heard a voice I thought I knew inside.
Then I heard St. Ambrose, and then your name.
Of course I listened ; I couldn’t help myself.
They \vere just inside the window, in the recess,
not five feet from ns ; so I heard pretty nearly
every word. Give us the tankard ; I’m as dry
as an ash-heap with talking. ” '

Tom, scarcely able to control his impatience,
handed the tankard. “But who was it? you
haven’t told me,” he said, as Drysdale put it
down at last empty.

“Why,thatd — d St. Cloud. He was giving
you a nice character, in a sort of sneaking, dep-
recatory way, as if he was sorry for it. Among
other little tales, he said you used to borrow
money from Jews — he knew it for a certainty,
because he had been asked himself to join you
and another man — meaning me, of course — in
such a transaction. You remember how he
wouldn’t acknowledge the money I lent him at
play, and the note he wrote me which upset
Blake so. I had never forgotten it. I knew I
should get my chance some day, and here it was.
I don’t know what the girl thought of me, or
how she got out of the balcony, but I stepped
into the recess just as he had finished his pre-
cious story, and landed between him and a com-
fortable old boy, who was looking shocked. He
must be your godfather, or something of the kind.
I’ll bet you a pony you are down for something
handsome in his will.”

“ What was his name ? Did you find out ?”

“Yes; Potter, or Porter, or something like
it. I’ve got his card somewhere. I just stared
St. Cloud in the face, and you may depend upon
it he winced. Then I told the old boy that I
had heard their talk, and, as I was at St. Am-
brose with you, I should like to have five min-
utes with him when St. Cloud had done. He
seemed rather in a corner between us. How-
ever I kept in sight till St. Cloud was obliged to
draw off; and, to cut my story short, as the
tankard is empty, I think I put you . pretty
straight there. You said we were quits just
now : after last night, perhaps we are, for I told
him the truth of the Benjamin story, and I think
he is squared. He seems a good sort of old
boy. He’s a relation of yours, eh ?”

“ Only a distant connection. Did any thing
more happen?”

“ Yes ; I saw that he was flurried, and didn’t
know quite what to think ; so I asked him to let
me call, and I would bring him some one else to

speak to your character. He gave me his card,
and I’m going to take Blake there to-day.
Then I asked him where you were, and he
didn’t know, but said he thought Grey could tell
me.”

“It is very kind of you, Drysdale, to take so
much trouble.”

“ Trouble ! I’d go from here to Jericho to be
even with our fine friend. I never forget a bad
turn. I met him afterwards in the cloak-room,
and went out of the door close after him, to give
him a chance if he wants to say any thing. I
only wish he would. But why do you suppose
he is lying about you ?”

“ I can’t tell. I’ve never spoken to him since
he left Oxford. Never saw him till yesterday,
riding with Mr. Porter. I suppose that remind-
ed them of me.”

“Well, St. Cloud is bent on getting round
him for some reason or another, you may take
your oath of that. Now my time’s up ; I shall
go and pick up Blake. I should think I had
better not take Jack to call in Eaton Square,
though he’d give you a good character if he
could speak ; wouldn’t you. Jack ?”

Jack wagged his tail, and descended from the
sofa.

‘ ‘ Does Blake live up here ? What is he do-
ing?”

“Burning the candle at both ends and in the
middle, as usual. Yes, he’s living near his
club. He writes political articles, devilish well,
I hear, too, and is reading for the bar ; besides
which he is getting into society, and going out
whenever he can, and fretting his soul out that
he isn’t prime minister, or something of the
kind. He won’t last long at the pace he’s go-
ing.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it. But you’ll come
here again, Drysdale ; or let me come and see
you ? I shall be very anxious to hear what has
happened.”

“Here’s my pasteboard ; I shall be in town
for another fortnight. Drop in when you like.”

And so Drysdale and Jack went off, leaving
Tom in a chaotic state of mind. All his old
hopes were roused again as he thought over
Drysdale’s narrative. He could no longer sit
still ; so he rushed out, and walked up and down
the river-side walk, in the Temple Gardens,
where a fine breeze was blowing, at a pace
which astonished the gate-keepers and the nur-
sery-maids and children, who were taking the
air in that favorite spot. Once or twice he re-
turned to chambers, and at last found East re-
posing after his excursion to the Docks.

East’s quick eye saw at once that something
had happened ; and he had very soon heard the
whole story ; upon which he deliberated for
some minutes, and rejoiced Tom’s heart by
saying : “Ah ! all up with New Zealand, I see.
I shall be introduced, after all, before we start.
Come along ; I must stand you a dinner on the
strength of the good news, and we’ll drink her
health.”

Tom called twice that evening at Drysdale’s

TOM BKOAYN AT OXTORD.

247

lodgings, but he was out. The next morning
he called again. Drysdale had gone to Hamp-
ton Court races, and had left no message. He
left a note for him, but got no answer. It was
ti7ing work. Another day passed without any
word from Drysdale, who seemed never to be at
home ; and no answer to either of his letters.
On the third morning he heard from his father.
It was just the answer which he had expected
— as kind a letter as could be written. Mr.
Brown had suspected how matters stood at one
time, but had given up the idea in consequence
of Tom’s silence ; which he regretted, as possi-
bly things might have happened otherwise had
he known the state of the case. It was too late
now, however; and tlie less said the better
about what might have been. As to New
Zealand, he should not oppose Tom’s going, if,
after some time, he continued in his present
mind. It was very natural for him just now to
wish to go. They would talk it over as soon as
Tom came home ; which Mr. Brown begged
him to do at once, or, at any rate, as soon as
he had seen his friend oif. Home was the
best place for him.

Tom sighed as he folded it up ; the hopes of
the last three days seemed to be fading away
again. He spent another restless day ; and by
night had persuaded himself that Drysdale’s
mission had been a complete failure, and that
he* did not write and kept out of the way out of
kindness to him.

“Why, Tom, old fellow, you look as down-in-
the-mouth as ever to-night,” East said, when
Tom opened the door for him about midnight,
on his return from his club; “cheer up; you
may depend it’s all to go right.”

“But I haven’t seen Drysdale again, and he
hasn’t written.”

“There’s nothing in that. He was glad
enough to do you a good turn, I dare say, when
it came in his way, but that sort of fellow never
can keep anything up. He has been too much
used to having his own way, and following his
own fancies. Don’t you lose heart because he
won’t put himself out for you.”

“Well, Harry, you are the best fellow in the
world. You would put backbone into any one.”
“ Now, we’ll just have a quiet cheroot, and
then turn in ; and see if you don’t have good
news to-morrow. How hot it is! the Strand
to-night is as hot as the Punjaub ; and the reek
of it — phah ! my throat is full of it still.”

East took off his coat, and was just throwing
it on a chair, when he stopped, and, feeling in
the pocket, said :

“ Let’s see, here’s a note for you. The por-
ter gave it me as I knocked in.”

Tom took it carelessly, but the next moment
was tearing it open with trembling fingers.
“Erom my cousin,” he said. East watched
him read, and saw the blood rush to his face
and the light come into his eyes.

“ Good news, Tom, I see. Bravo, old boy !
You’ve had a long fight for it, and deserve to
win.”

Tom got up, tossed the note across the table,
and began walking up and down the room :
his heart was too full for speech.

“ May I read ?” said East, looking up.

Tom nodded, and he read :

“Dear Tom, — I am come to town to spend
a week with them in Eaton Square. Call on
me to-morrow at twelve, or, if you are engaged
then, between three and five. I have no time
to add more now', but long to sec you. Your
loving cousin, Katie.

“ P.S. — I w'ill give you your parcel back to-
morrow, and then you can burn the contents
yourself, or do what you like with them. Un-
cle bids me say he shall be glad if you will
come and dine to-morrow, and any other day
you can spare while I am here.”

When he had read the note. East got up
and shook hands heartily with Tom, and then
sat dow'n again quietly to finish his cheroot,
watching with a humorous look his friend’s
march.

“ And you think it is really all right now' ?”
Tom asked, in one form or another, after every
few turns ; and East replied in various forms
of chafidng assurance that there could not be
much further question on the point. At last,
when he had finished his cheroot, he got up,
and, taking his candle, said, “ Good-night,
Tom ; when that revolution comes which
you’re always predicting, remember, if you’re
not shot or hung, you’ll always find a roost for
you and your wife in New Zealand.”

“I don’t feel so sure about the revolution
now, Harry.”

“ Of course you don’t. Mind, I bargain for
the dinner in Eaton Square. I ahvays told you
I should dine there before I started.”

He 4: ^

The next day Tom found that he was not
engaged at twelve o’clock, and was able to ap-
pear in Eaton Square. He was shown up into
the drawing-room, and found Katie alone there.
The quiet and coolness of the darkened room
was most grateful to him after the glare of the
streets, as he sat down by her side.

“But, Katie,” he said, as soon as the first
salutations and congratulations had passed,
“how did it all happen? I can’t believe my
senses yet. I am afraid I may wake up any
minute.”

“Well, it was chiefly owing to two lucky
coincidences ; though no doubt it would have
all come right in time without them.”

“Our meeting the other day in the street, I
suppose, for one ?”

“ Yes. Coming across you so suddenly, car-
rying the little girl, reminded Mary of the day
when she sprained her ankle, and you carried
her through Hazel Copse. Ah ! you never told
me all of that adventure, either of you.”

“All that was necessary, Katie.”

“Oh! I have pardoned you. Uncle saw
then that she was very much moved at some-

248

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

tiling, and guessed well enough what it was.
He is so very kind, and so fond of Mary, he
would do any thing in the world that she wish-
ed. She was quite unwell that evening; so he
and aunt had to go out alone, and they met
that Mr. St. Cloud at a party who was said to
be engaged to her.”

“ It wasn’t true, then ?”

“No, never. He is a very designing man,
though I believe he was really in love with poor
Mary. At any rate, he has iiersecuted her for
more than a year. And it is very wicked, but
I am afraid he spread all those reports him-
self.”

“ Of their engagement? Just like him !”
“Uncle is so good-natured, you know; and
he took advantage of it, and was always coming
hei’e and riding with them. And he had made
uncle believe dreadful stories about you, which
made him seem so unkind. He was quite afraid
to have you at the house.”

“Yes, I saw that last year ; and the second
coincidence ?”

“It happened that very night. Poor Un-
cle was very much troubled what to do ; so,
when he met Mr. St. Cloud, as I told you, he
took him aside to ask him again about you.
Somehow, a gentleman who was a friend of
yours at Oxford overheard what was said, and
came forward and explained every thing.”
“Yes, he came and told me.”

“ Then you know more than I about it.”

“ And you think Mr. Porter is convinced that
I am not quite such a scamp, after all?”

“ Yes, indeed ; and the boys are so delighted
that they will see you again. They are at home
for the holidays, and so grown.”

“And Mary?”

“ She is very well. You will see her before
long, I dare say.”

“ Is she at home ?”

“She is out riding with uncle. Now I will
go up and get your parcel, which I had opened
at home before I got aunt’s note asking me here.
No wonder we could never find her boot !”
Katie disappeared, and at the same time Tom
thought he heard the sound of horses’ feet.
Yes, and they have stopped, too ; it must be
Mary and her father. He could not see, be-
cause of the blinds and other devices for keep-
ing the room cool. But the next moment there
were voices in the hall below, and then a light
step on the carpeted stair which no ear but his
could have heard. His heart beat with heavy,
painful pulsations, and his head swam as the
door opened, and Mary, in her riding-habit,
stood in the room.

CHAPTER L.

THE POSTSCEIPT.

OuK curtain must rise once again, and it shall
be on a familiar spot. Once more we must
place ourselves on the Hawk’s Lynch, and look

out over the well-known view, and the happy
autumn fields, ripe with the golden harvest.
Two people are approaching on horseback from
the Barton side, who have been made one since
w^e left them at the fall of the curtain in the
last chapter. They ride lovingly together, close
to one another, and forgetful of the whole world,
as they should do, for they have scarcely come
to the end of their honey-moon.

They are in country costume — she in a light
plain habit, but well cut, and sitting on her as
well as she sits on her dainty gray ; he in
shooting-coat and wdde-awake, wdth his fishing-
basket slung over his shoulder. They come
steadily up the hill-side, rousing a yellow-ham-
mer here and there from the furze-bushes, and
only draw bit when they have reached the very
top of the knoll. Then they dismount, and
Tom produces tw'o halters from his fishing-
basket, and, taking off the bridles, fastens the
horses up in the shade of the fir-trees, and
loosens their girths, while Mary, after search-
ing in the basket, pulls out a bag and pours
out a prodigal feed of corn before each of them
on the short grass.

“What are 'you doing, you wasteful little
woman? You should have put the bag under-
neath. They won’t be able to pick up half the
corn.”

“Never mind, dear ; then the birds will get
it.”

“And you have given them enough for three
feeds.”

“ Why did you put so much in the bag ? Be-
sides, you know' it is the last feed I shall give
her. Poor dear little Gypsy,” she added, pat-
ting the neck of her dapple gray. “You have
found a kind mistress for her, dear ; haven’t
you ?”

“Yes; she will be lightly worked and well
cared for,” he said shortly, turning away, and
busying himself with the basket again.

‘•‘But no one will ever love you, Gypsjq like
your old mistress. Now give me a kiss, and
you shall have your treat,” and she pulled a
piece of sugar out of the pocket of her riding-
habit ; at the sight of wdiich the gray held out
her beautiful nose to be fondled, and then lap-
ped up the sugar with eager lips from Mary’s
hand, and turned to her corn.

The young wife tripped across and sat dowm
near her husband, who was laying out their
luncheon on the turf. ‘ ‘ It W'as very dear of
you to think of coming here for our last ride,”
she said. “I remember how charmed I was
with the place the first Sunday I ever spent at
Englebourn, when Katie brought me Tip here
directly after breakfast, before we went to the
school. Such a time ago it seems — before I
ever saw you. And I have never been here
since. But I love it most for your sake, dear.
Now tell me again all the times you have been
here.”

Tom proceeded to recount some of his visits
to the Hau;^’s Lynch, in which we have accom-
panied him. And then they talked on about

TOM BEOWN AT OXFOED.

249

Katie, and East, and the Englebonrn people,
past and present, old Betty, and Harry and his
wife in New Zealand, and David patching coats
and tending bees, and executing the Queen’s
justice to the best of his ability in the village at
their feet.

“Poor David! I must get over somehow to see
him before we leave home. He feels your un-
cle’s death, and the other changes in the par-
ish, more than any one.”

“I am so sorry the living was sold,” said
Mary; “Katie and her husband would have
made Englebonrn into a little paradise.”

“It could not be helped, dear. I can’t say
I’m sorry. There would not have been work
enough for him. He is better where he is, in a
great town-parish.”

“But Katie did love the place so, and was so
nsed to it ; she had become quite a little queen
there before her marriage. See what we wom-
en have to give up for you,” she said, playfully,
turning to him. But a shadow passed over his
face, and he looked away without answering. •
“What makes you look sorrowful, dear?
What are you thinking of?”

“ Oh, nothing !”

“That isn’t true. Now tell me what it is.
You have no right, you know, to- keep any
thing from me.”

“I can’t bear to think that you have had to
sell Gypsy. You have never been without a
riding-horse till now. You will miss your rid-
ing dreadfully, I am sure, dear.”

“I shall do very well without riding. I am
so proud of learning my lesson from you. You
will see what a poor man’s wife I shall make.
I have been getting mamma to let me do the
housekeeping, and know how a joint should
look, and all sorts of useful things. And I
have made my own house-linen. I shall soon
get to hate all luxuries as much as you do.”
“Now, Mary, you mustn’t run into extremes.
I never said you ought to hate all luxuries, but
that almost every body one knows is a slave to
them.”

“Well, and I hate any thing that wants to
make a slave of me.”

“ You are a dear little free woman. But, now
we are on this subject again, Mary, I really want
to speak to you about keeping a lady’s-maid. We
can quite afford it, and you ought to have one.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort.”

“Not to oblige me, Mary?”

“ No, not even to oblige you. There is some-
thing to be said for dear Gypsy. But take a
maid again, to do nothing but torment me,
and pretend to take care of my clothes, and my
hair ! I never knew what freedom was till I
got rid of poor, foolish, grumbling Higgins.”

“ But you may get a nice girl who will be a
comfort to you.”

‘ ‘ No, I never will have a woman again to do
nothing but look after me. It isn’t fair to them.
Besides, dear, you can’t say that I don’t look bet-
ter since I have done my own hair. Did you
ever see it look brighter than it does now ?”

“ Never; and now here is luncheon all ready.”
So they sat down on tlie verge of the slope, and ate
their cold cliicken and tongue, with the relisli im-
parted by youth, a long ride, and the bracing air.

Mary was merrier and brighter than ever,
but it was an effort with him to respond ; and
soon she began to notice this, and then there
was a pause, which she broke at last with some-
thing of an effort.

“ There is that look again. AYhat makes
you look so serious now? I must know.”

“ Was I looking serious ? I beg your ]>ar-
don, dearest, and I won’t do so any more ;”
and he smiled as he answered, but the smile
faded away before her steady, loving gaze, and
he turned slightly from her, and looked out over
the vale below.

She watched him for a short time in silence,
her own fair young face changing like a sum-
mer sea as the light clouds pass over it. Pres-
ently she seemed to have come to some decis-
ion ; for, taking off her riding-hat, she threw it
and her whip and gauntlets on the turf beside
her, and, drawing nearer to his side, laid her
hand on his. He looked at her fondly, and,
stroking her hair, said :

“Take care of your complexion, Mary.”

“ Oh, it will take care of itself in this air,
dear. Besides, you are between me and the
sun ; and now you must tell me why you look
so serious. It is not the first time I have no-
ticed that look. I am your wife, you know,
and I have a right to know your thoughts, and
to share all your joy, and all your sorrow. I
do not mean to give up any of my rights which I
got by marrying you.”

“ Your rights, dearest ! your poor little rights,
which you have gained by changing name and
plighting troth. It is thinking of that — think-
ing of what you have bought, and the price you
have paid for it, which makes me sad at times :
even when you are sitting by me, and laying
your hand on my hand, and the sweet burden of
your pure life and being on my soiled and baf-
fled manhood.”

“But it was my own bargain, you know,
dear, and I am satisfied with my purchase. I
paid the price with my eyes open.”

“Ah, if I could only feel that !”

“But you know that it is true.”

“ No, dearest, that is the pinch. I do not
know that it is true. I often feel that it is just
not a bit true. It was a one-sided bargain, in
which one of the parties had eyes open and got
all the advantage ; and that party was I.”

“ I will not have you so conceited,” she said,
patting his hand once or twice, and looking more
bravely than ever up into his eyes. “Why
should you think you were so much the cleverer
of the two as to get all the good out of our bar-
gain ? lam not going to allow that you are so
much the most quick-witted and clear-sighted.
Women are said to be as quick-witted as men.
Perhaps it is not I w'ho have been outwitted, af-
ter all.”

“Look at the cost, Mary. Think of what

250

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

you will have to give up. You can not reckon
it up yet.”

“What! you are going back to the riding-
horses and lady’s-maid again. I thought I had
convinced you on those points.”

“ They are only a very small part of the
price. You have left a home where every
body loved you. You knew it ; you were sure
of it. You had felt their love ever since you
could remember any thing.”

“Yes, dear, and I feel it still. They will be
all just as fond of me at home, though I am your
wife.”

“ At home ! It is no longer your home.”
“No, I have a home of my own now. A
new home with new love there to live on ; and
an old home, with the old love to think of.”

“ A new home instead of an old one ; a poor
home instead of a rich one — a home where the
cry of the sorrow and suffering of the world will
reach you, for one in which you had — ”

“In which I had not you, dear. There now,
that was my purchase. I set my mind on hav-
ing you — buying you, as that is your word. I
have paid my price, and got my bargain, and —
you know I was always an oddity, and rather
willful — am content with it.”

“ Yes, Mary, you have bought me, and you
little know, dearest, what you have bought. I can
scarcely bear my own selfishness at times, when
I think of what your life might have been had I
left you alone, and what it must be with me.”
“And what might it have been, dear?”
“Why, you might have married some man
with plenty of money, who could have given you
every thing to which you have been used.”

“I shall begin to think that you believe in
luxuries, after all, if you go on making so much
of them. You must not go on preaching one
thing and practising another. I am a convert
to your preaching, and believe in the misery of
multiplying artificial wants. Your wife must
have none.”

“ Yes, but wealth and position are not to be
despised. I feel that, now that it is all done
past recall, and I have to think of you. But
the loss of them is a mere nothing to what you
will have to go through.”

“ What do you mean, dear? Of coui'se we
must expect some troubles, like other people.”
“Why, I mean, Mary, that you might at
least have married a contented man ; some one
who found the Avorld a very good world, and
was satisfied with things as they are, and had
light enough to steer himself by ; and not a fel-
low like me, full of all manner of doubts and
pei’plexities, who sees little but wrong in the
world about him, and more in himself.”

“You think I should have been more com-
fortable ?”

“ Yes, more comfortable and happier. What
right had I to bring my worries on you? For
I know you can’t live with me, dearest, and not
be bothered and annoyed when I am anxious
and dissatisfied.”

“ But whnt if I did not marry you to be com-
fortable ?”

“My darling, you never thought about it,
and I was too selfish to think for you.”

“There now, you see, it is just as I said.”

“ How do you mean?”

“ I mean that you are quite wrong in think-
ing that I have been deceived. I did not mar-
ry you, dear, to be comfortable — and I did think
it all over ; ay, over and over again. So you
are not to run away with the belief that you
have taken me in.”

“I shall be glad enough to give it up,, dear-
est, if you can convince me.”

“ Then you will listen while I explain?”
“Yes, with all my ears and all my heart.”

“ You remember the year that we met, when
we danced and went nutting together, a thought-
less boy and girl — ”

“ Remember it ! Have I ever — ”

“ You are not to interrupt. Of course you
remember it all, and are ready to tell me that
you loved me the first moment you saw me at
the window in High Sti’eet. Well, perhaps I
shall not object to be told it at a proper time,
but now I am making my confessions. I liked
you then, because you were Katie’s cousin, and
almost my first partner, and were never tired of
dancing, and were generally merry and pleas-
ant, though you sometimes took to lecturing,
even in those days.”

“But, Mary — ”

“ You are to be silent now, and listen. I
liked you then. But you are not to look con-
ceited and flatter yourself. It was only a girl’s
fancy. I couldn’t have married you then — giv-
en myself up to you. No, I don’t think I could,
even on the night when you fished for me out
of the window with the heather and heliotrope,
though I kept them, and have them still. And
then came that scene down below, at old Si-
mon’s cottage, and I thought I should never
wish to see you again. And then I came out
in London and went abroad. I scarcely heard
of you again for a year, for Katie hardly ever
mentioned you in her letters ; and, though I
sometimes wished that she would, and thought
I should just like to know what you were doing,
I was too proud to ask. Meantime I went
out and enjoyed myself, and had a great many
pretty things said to me— much prettier things
than you ever said — and made the acquaintance
of pleasant young men, friends of papa and
mamma ; many of them with good establish-
ments too. But I shall not tell you any thing
more about them, or you will be going off about
the luxuries I have been used to. Then I be-
gan to hear of you again. Katie came to stay
with us, and I met some of your Oxford* friends.
Poor dear Katie ! she was full of you and your
wild sayings and doings, half-frightened and
half-pleased, but all the time the best and tru-
est friend you ever had. Some of the rest were
not friends at all ; and I have heard many a
sneer and unkind word, and stories of your
monstrous speeches and habits. Some said you
were mad ; others that you liked to be eccentric ;
that you couldn’t bear to live wdth your equals ;
that you sought the society of your inferiors to

TOM BROWN AT OXFORD.

251

be flattered. I listened, and thought it all over,
and, being willful and eccentric myself, you
know, liked more and more to hear about you,
and hoped I should see you again some day.

I was curious to judge for myself whether you
were much changed for the better or the worse.
And at last came the day when I saw you
again, carrying the poor lame child ; and, after
that, you know what happened. So here we
are, dear, and you are my husband. And you
will please never to look serious again, from
aiiy foolish thought that I have been taken in —
that I did not know what I was about when I
took you ‘ for better for worse, for richer for
poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do
part.’ Now what have you to say for yourself ?”
“Nothing ; but a great deal for you. I see
more and more, my darling, w'hat a brave, gen-
erous, pitying angel I have tied to myself. But
seeing that makes me despise myself more.”
“What! you arc going to dare to disobey
me already?”

“I can’t help it, dearest. All you say shows
me more and more that you have made all the
sacrifice, and I am to get all the benefit. A
man like me has no right to bring such a wom-
an as you under his burden.”

“ But you couldn’t heljJ yourself. It was be-
cause you were out of sorts with the world,
smarting with the wrongs you saw on every side,
struggling after something better and higher, and
siding and sympathizing with the poor and weak,
that I loved you. We should never have been
here, dear, if you had been a young gentleman
satisfied with himself and the world, and likely
to get on well in society.”

“Ah! Mary, it is all very well for a man.
It is a man’s business. But why is a woman’s
life to be made wretched ? Why should you
be dragged into all my perplexities, and doubts,
and dreams, and struggles?”

“And why should I not ?”

“ Life should be all bright and beautiful to a
woman. It is every man’s duty to shield her
from all that can vex, or pain, or soil.”

“But have women different souls from men?”
“ God forbid !”

“Then are we not fit to share your highest
hopes ?”

“ To share our highest hopes ! Yes, when we
have any. But the mire and clay where one
sticks fast over and over again, with no high
hopes or high any thing else in sight — a man
must be a selfish brute to bring one he pretends
to love into all that.”

“Now, Tom,” she said, almost solemnly,
“you are not true to yourself. Would you part
with your own deepest convictions ? Would
you, if you could, go back to the time when you
cared for and thought about none of these
things ?”

He thought a minute, and then, pressing her
hand, said :

“No, dearest, I would not. The conscious-

ness of the darkness in one and around one brings
the longing for light. And then the light dawns ;
through mist and fog, perhaps, but enough to jiick
one’s way by.” lie stopped a moment, and then
added, “ and shines ever brighter unto the per-
fect day. Yes, I begin to know it.”

“Then why not put me on your own level?
Why not let me pick my way by your side ?
Can not a woman feel the wrongs that arc going
on in the world ? Can not she long to see them
set right, and pray that they may be set right?
We are not meant to sit in fine silks, and look
pretty, and spend money, any more than you are
meant to make it, and cry peace where there is
no peace. If a woman can not do much her-
self, she can honor and love a man who can.”
He turned to her, and bent over her, and kiss-
ed her forehead, and kissed her lips. She look-
ed up with sparkling eyes and said :

“ Am I not right, dear?”

“ Yes, you are right, and I have been false to
my creed. You have taken a load off my heart,
dearest. Henceforth there shall be but one mind
and one soul between us. You have made me
feel what it is that a man wants^ what is the
help that is meet for him.”

He looked into her eyes, and kissed her again ;
and then rose up, for there -was something with-
in him like a moving of new life, which lifted
him, and set him on his feet. And he stood
with kindling brow, gazing into the autumn air,
as his heart went sorrowing, but hopefully “ sor-
rowing, back through all the faultful past.”
And she sat on at first, and watched his face ;
and neither spoke nor moved for some minutes.
Then she rose too, and stood by his side :

And on her lover’s arm she leant,

And round her waist she felt it fold ;

And so across the hills they went.

In that new world which is the old.

Yes, that new world, through the golden gates of
which they had passed together, which is the old,
old world, after all, and nothing else. The same
old and new world it was to our fathers and moth-
ers as it is to us, and shall be to our children — a
world clear and bright, and ever becoming clear-
er and brighter to the humble, and true, and
pure of heart — to every man and woman who
will live in it as the children of the Maker and
Lord of it, their Father. To them, and to them
alone, is that world, old and new, given, and all
that is in it, fully and freely to enjoy. All
others but these are occupying where they have
no title; “they are sowing much, but bringing
in little ; they eat, but have not enough ; they
drink, but are not filled with drink ; they clothe
themselves, but there is none w'arm ; and he of
them who earneth wages earneth wages to put
them into a bag with holes.” But these have
the world and all things for a rightful and rich
inheritance ; for they hold them as dear children
of Him in whose hand it and they are lying, and
no power in earth or hell shall pluck them out
of their Father’s hand.

Novels are sweets. All people with healthy literary appetites love them— almost all women ; a vast number
of clever, hard-headed men. Judges, bishops, chancellors, mathematicians, are notorious novel readers, as
well as young boys and sweet girls, and theii- kind, tender mothers. — W. M. TuAOiiEu.vv, in Roundabout Papers.

ribrary

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248. Quite Alone. By George Augustus

Sala 75

249. Mattie: a Stray 75

250. My Brother’s Wife. By Amelia B.

Edwards 50

251. Uncle Silas. By J. S. Le Fanu 75

252. Lovel the Widower. By Thackeray. . 25

253. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trol-

lope 50

254. On Guard. By Annie Thomas 50

255. Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 50

256. Denis Doone. By Annie Thomas. ... 50

257. Belial 50

258. Carry’s Confession 75

259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. Ed-

wards 50

260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Ed-

wards,... 50

261. GuyDeverell. By J, S. Le Fanu.... 50

262. Half a Million of Money. By Amelia

B. Edwards 75

263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony

Trollope 50

264. Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant 75

265. Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas.. 75

266. Maxwell Drewitt. By Mrs. J. H.

Riddell 75

267. The Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo 75

268. Miss Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Olip-

hant 50

269. True History of a Little Ragamuffin.

By James Greenwood 50

270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of “A

TTircjf T?rior»r1c]-tiT\ ’’ 1 f\f\

271. Sans Merci. By Geo. Lawrence 50

272. Phemie Keller. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 50

273. Land at Last. By Edmund Yates.,.. 50

274. Felix Holt, the Radical. By George

Eliot 75

275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saun-

ders 75

276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu. 50

277. Kissing the Rod. By Edmund Yates 75

TEIOE

278. The Race for Wealth. By Mrs. J. 11.

Riddell $ 75

279. Lizzie Lorton of Greyrigg. By Mrs.

Linton 75

280. The Beauclercs, Father and Son. By

C. Clarke 50

281. Sir Brook Fossbrooke. By Charles

Lever 50

282. Madonna Mary. By Mrs. Oliphant . 50

283. Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Black-

more 75

284. Bernthal. From the German of L.

Muhlbach 50

285. Rachel’s Secret 75

286. The Claverings. By Anthony Trol-

lope 50

287. The Village on the Cliff. By Miss

Thackeray 25

288. Played Out. By Annie Thomas.!.... 75

289. Black Sheep. By Edmund Yates 50

290. Sowing the Wind, By E. Lynn

Linton 50

291. Nora and Archibald Lee 50

292. Raymond’s Heroine 50

293. Mr. Wynyard’s Ward. By Holme

Lee 50

294. Alec Forbes. By George Macdonald 75

295. No Man’s Friend. By F. W. Robin-

son 75

296. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 50

297. Caste 50

298. The Curate’s Discipline. By Mrs.

Eiloart 50

299. Circe. By Babington White 50

300. The Tenants of Malory. By J. S. Le

Fanu 50

301. Carl}'on’s Year. By James Payn 25

302. The Waterdale Neighbors 50

303. Mabel’s Progress 50

304. Guild Court. By Geo. Macdonald... 50

305. The Brothers’ Bet. By Miss Carlen. 25

306. Playing for High Stakes. By Annie

‘Thomas. Illustrated 25

307. Margaret’s Engagement 50

308. One of the Family. By James Payn. 25

309. Five Hundred Pounds Reward. By

a Barrister 50

310. Brownlows. By Mrs. Oliphant 38

311. Charlotte’s Inheritance. Sequel to

“Birds of Prey.” By Miss Braddon 50

312. Jeanie’s Quiet Life. By the Author

of “St. Olave’s” 50

313. Poor Humanity, By F. W. Robinson 50

314. Brakespeare. By Geo. Lawrence 50

315. A Lost Name. By J. S. Le Fanu..,, 50

316. Love or Marriage? By W. Black.... 50

317. Dead- Sea Fruit, By Miss Braddon.

Illustrated 50

318. The Dower House. By Annie Thomas 50

319. The Bramleighs of Bishop’s Folly. By

Lever 1 50

320. Mildred. By Georgiana M. Craik.... 60

321. Nature’s Nobleman. By the Author

of “Rachel’s Secret” 50

322. Kathleen. By the Author of “Ray-

mond’s Heroine” 50

323. That Boy of Norcott’s. By Charles

Lever 25

324. In Silk Attire. By W, Black 50

325. Hetty. By Henry Kingsley 25

326. False Colors. By Annie Thomas 50

Harper^ s Library of Select Novels.

PEIOB

327. Meta’s Faith. By the Author of “ St.

Olave’s ” $ 50

328. Found Dead. By James Payn 50

329. Wrecked in Port. By Edmund Yates 50

330. The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. Oli-

phant 75

331. A Beggar on Horseback. By James

Payn 35

332. Kitty. By M. Betham Edwards 50

333. Only Herself. By Annie Thomas .... 50

334. Hirell. By John Saunders 50

335. Under Foot. By Alton Clyde 50

336. So Kuns the World Away. By Mrs.

A. C. Steele 50

337. Baffled. By Julia Goddard 75

338. Beneath the Wheels 50

339. Stern Necessity. By F. W. Eobinson 60

340. Gwendoline’s Harvest. By James

Payn 25

341. Kilmeny. By William Black 50

342. John : A Love Story. By Mrs. Oli-

phant 50

343. True to Herself. By F. W. Robinson 50

314. Veronica. By the Author of “Ma-

bel’s Progress ” 60

315. A Dangerous Guest. By the Author

of ‘ ‘ Gilbert Rugge ” 50

346. Estelle Russell 75

347. The Heir Expectant. By the Author

of “Raymond’s Heroine” 50

348. Which is the Heroine ? 50

349. The Vivian Romance. By Mortimer

Collins 50

350. In Duty Bound. Illustrated 50

351. The Warden and Barchester Towers.

By A. Trollope 75

352. From Thistles — Grapes? By Mrs.

Eiloart 50

353. A Siren. By T. A. Trollope 50

354. Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite.

By Anthony Trollope. Illustrated... 50

355. Earl’s Dene. By R. E. Francillon.... 50

356. Daisy Nichol. By Lady Hardy 60

357. Bred in the Bone. By James Payn.. 50

358. Fenton’s Quest. By Miss Braddon.

Illustrated 50

359. Monarch of Mincing - Lane. By W.

Black. Illustrated 50

360. A Life’s Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Rid-

dell 50

361. Anteros. By the Author of “Guy

Livingstone” 50

362. Her Lord and Master. By Mrs. Ross

Church 50

363. Won — Not Wooed. By James Payn 50

364. For Lack of Gold. By Chas. Gibbon 50

365. Anne Furness 75

366. A Daughter of Heth. By W. Black . 50

367. Durnton Abbey. By T. A. Trollope. 50

368. Joshua Marvel. By B. L. Furjeon... 40

369. Levels of Arden. By M. E. Braddon.

Illustrated 75

370. Fair to See. ByL. W. M. Lockhart. 75

371. Cecil’s Tryst. By James Payn 50

PRICE

372. Patty. By Katharine S. Macquoid...$ 50

373. Maud Mohan. By Annie Thomas.... 25

374. Grif. By B. L. Farjeon 40

375. A Bridge of Glass. By F.W. Robinson 50

376. Albert Lunel. By Lord Brougham.. 75

377. A Good Investment. By William

Flagg 50

378. A Golden Sorrow. By Mrs. Cashel

Hoey 50

379. Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 75

380. Hope Deferred. By Eliza F. Pollard 50

381. The Maid of Sker. By R. D. Black-

more ... 75

382. For the King. By Charles Gibbon... 50

383. A Girl’s Romance, and Other Tales.

By F. W. Robinson 50

384. Dr. Wainwright’s Patient. By Ed-

mund Yates 50

385. A Passion in Tatters. By Annie

Thomas 75

386. A Woman’s Vengeance. By James

Payn 50

387. The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton.

By William Black 75

388., To the Bitter End. By Miss M. E.

Braddon 75

389. Robin Gray. By Charles Gibbon 50

390. Godolphin. By Bulwer 50

391. Leila. By Bulwer 50

392. Kenelm Chillingly. By Lord Lytton. 75

393. The Hour and the Man. By Harriet

Martineau 50

394. Murphy’s Master. By James Payn... 25

395. The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Col-

lins.. 50

396. “ ‘He Cometh Not,’ She Said.” By

Annie Thomas 50

397. Innocent. By Mrs. Oliphant. Illus-

trated 75

398. Too Soon. By Mrs. Macquoid 50

399. Strangers and Pilgrims. By Miss

Braddon 75

400. A Simpleton. By Charles Reade 50

401. The Two Widows. By Annie Thomas 50

402. Joseph the Jew 50

403. Her Face was Her Fortune. By F.

W. Robinson 50

404. A Princess of Thule. By AY. Black. 75

405. Lottie Darling. By J. C. Jeaffreson. 75

406. The Blue Ribbon. By the Author of

“St. Olave’s” 50

407. Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By An-

thony Trollope 25

408. Publicans and Sinners. By Miss M.

E. Braddon 75

409. Colonel Dacre. By the Author of

“Caste” 50

410. Through Fire and Water. By Fred-

erick Talbot i 25

411. Lady Anna. By Anthony Trol-

lope 50

412. Taken at the Flood. By Miss Brad-

don 75

413. At Her Mercy. By James Payn 50

Harper & Brothers will send their works by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the
United States, on receipt of the price.

PR 4809 H8 T65 1875
Hughesy Thomasy 1822-1896.
Tom Brown’s school days#

0252173W CURR

historical

COLLECT 1 O’-

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